Red Skirt and Purple Vitex
The morning light, like a thin mist, blanketed the windowsill; the city wasn't fully awake yet. Hu Li pulled out the transparent folder she'd backed up the night before and compared the two reader submissions Xiao Min had sent back with her old paintings, one by one. In the distant view, the blurry white dots by the roadside looked like pinpricks; in the smaller one, the little girl in the red dress behind the railing was reduced to a tiny patch of color, yet it was strikingly vivid. She turned the light up a notch, used a ruler to compare the proportions along the edges of the photos, and then flipped through her childhood sketchbook from when she was six—the small drawing of a person without a background lay quietly in the center, the pencil lines as fine as breathing, the girl cradling another drawing, filled with densely packed purple flowers. She stared at it for a long time, her heart feeling as if it were being gently squeezed: this drawing had no sea, no railing, no slope, only herself and the drawing. Why did I erase the entire surrounding area? Did I forget, or did I deliberately leave it out? She placed the drawing in the center of the table and wrote three words in the upper right corner: Red Dress.
The phone vibrated; it was Xiaomin's voice message: "I'm in Hong Kong. I went to the old rental shop this morning; they said the files can still be found. This afternoon, I'll go back to Lao Zheng's to confirm the temporary parking order from back then. Don't worry, don't show up yet." Hu Li returned the gesture with a fist salute, then zoomed in on the first distant view until it was grainy and blurry, tracing the white dot with his fingertip as if trying to draw it out of the fog. Footsteps came from behind the door, and Mu Tianlang came out of the bathroom, his cuffs buttoned up to the last button, his expression familiarly cold and steady. He saw her spread out the table like a small workbench, walked over, and pressed down on her knuckles, which had turned white from the pressure: "Have breakfast."
She looked up, smiled, and deliberately clung to him a little, "Mr. Wolf, give me five minutes." He didn't let go, only taking her pen and putting it in the pen holder, "Not even four minutes. Eat first, and I'll watch with you for as long as you want." She was amused by his serious and forceful manner, and obediently got up from her chair to go to the kitchen to heat up the oatmeal she had soaked the night before. Only the white of the milk and the red of the fruit remained on the table, and their movements were so quiet, as if they had been rehearsed. She stole a few glances at him, but he lowered his head to drink his milk, not looking at her, only casually putting pieces of fruit into her plate when she picked up some.
Her phone vibrated. She glanced at the caller ID and whispered to him, "I'll take this call and be right back." She closed the transparent clipboard, got up, and went to the balcony to answer the call, gently pushing the chair back into place as she passed the dining area. He nodded. "Go ahead." He closed the door, leaving only a crack for ventilation. Xiaomin's voice carried a hint of wind: "I went to that old car rental place. The manager changed twice back then, but the old ledgers are still in the warehouse. I had someone find it from that summer, and there's definitely a rental record for 'Su Qin,' along with the deposit receipt. The manager also mentioned that the van had a rather large scratch on the right rear, like it had been in an accident or the driver's reversing skills were poor; the new owner complained about it when he picked it up." She paused, then added, "I managed to get a copy of the customer complaint form from back then, and I'll bring it back for you to see. I'll go again this afternoon." "Old Zheng said he could help me find the stub of the temporary suspension order. It might not be complete, but he might be able to piece it together." Hu Li said softly, "Thank you for your help." Before hanging up, Xiao Min added, "By the way, I just had someone do some preliminary cleaning of those two reader photos. The red block behind the railing in the smaller picture is about the size of a six-year-old child, and the pose is sideways with the arm raised, like they're holding something. As for whether it's you, we'll have to compare it with your drawing." She nodded, put her phone in her pocket, and then pushed open the door to return to the living room. The transparent clip was still on the corner of the table; she didn't open it. He walked past the dining area with a cup in his hand, his gaze lingering on the transparent clip for half a second. He didn't ask anything, just wiped the rim of the cup dry, and turned to go into the study. A few minutes later, a sliver of dim light from the screen shone through the crack in the study door. He whispered a few instructions, as if he were arranging for someone to help.
The room fell silent for a moment. Hu Li moved the small drawing of a figure in a red dress, holding the painting, next to the smaller drawing. The two tiny figures seemed to gaze at each other across a twenty-year-old fog. Suddenly, she remembered a detail, flipped through the loose pages, and pulled out another inconspicuous draft—in the corner was a childishly written arrow, next to which were the crookedly written pinyin: "qian tai". She stared at those two characters, sat down at the table, and whispered, "I forgot why I drew this one, I only remember writing 'qian tai' in the corner."
She wasn't so afraid when she spoke, as if a stone that had been rolling for a long time had finally been placed in its rightful place. Mu Tianlang didn't comfort her immediately. She felt his fingers gently press on her shoulder blade, the pressure like a silent testament. After a moment, he spoke, his tone calm: "Don't rush, think slowly. Do you remember the smell?" She paused, "What smell?" He looked at the small drawing: "The flower you drew." Hu Li closed her eyes, her nostrils filled with the simultaneous scent of salty dampness and dry grass from long ago: it was summer, the scent of pollen warmed by the sun, the sea in the distance, and the sound of a pencil scratching on paper nearby. She spoke slowly in the darkness: "It seemed... someone was drawing next to me. There was sand in the wind, and the edge of the paper kept shaking. He told me to sit for a while, saying he would take me to the front desk to find someone after he finished drawing." She opened her eyes, her breath quickening involuntarily. "He asked me if I liked flowers, and said the flower was called Purple Vitex."
Mu Tianlang's eyes finally flickered, as if a deep vortex in his gaze had been touched. He didn't say "my brother," nor did he rush to bring that name into the picture. He simply flipped the small drawing of the red dress over and wrote four small characters in the corner: "Someone is drawing." He stopped after writing, as if afraid his words were too heavy and would crush the tiny fragment of memory she had just begun to form. He changed to a gentler approach, taking a blank sheet of paper from his desk and placing it in front of her: "Draw the positions and actions as you remembered. It doesn't have to be precise." Her hand holding the pen trembled at first, but became much steadyer by the second stroke: the railing, the chair, the positions of the two people, the direction of the cardboard, and the placement of the flower on the drawing paper. After she finished drawing, she was silent for two seconds, then suddenly smiled: "I sat very well." He smiled too, a low, short smile: "Hmm, you've never been well-behaved since you were little." She looked up and glared at him, and he reached out and rubbed her earlobe: "Just kidding."
After noon, phone calls and emails rained down. The legal department sent a scanned copy of supplementary materials provided by the resort property management. A handwritten note from the front desk contained a hastily written line: "The young guest got lost and was found that evening." The time was 7:52 PM. Mu Tianlang stared at the number, his fingertips tapping lightly on the edge of the table, as if setting the time. He asked Xiao Zhou to retrieve the archived internal calls from that evening, though they might be incomplete due to their age, and also requested the front desk's standby roster from that year. Another email was a statement from the property management regarding surveillance footage: twenty years ago, there were few cameras along the coast, and only the entrances and exits of the park's corridors had cameras; the rest were recorded manually. But one note pierced through the dust like a beam of light—"That evening, a reader submitted two photos to the local newspaper."
Before evening, Xiaomin called again. She walked to the window to answer, her voice very low: "Go ahead."
"I found two temporary parking tickets, and the license plates ending in 7 were all from around this time period. The location was a temporary parking spot at the other end of the embankment intersection. Also, the car rental company mentioned that your mother said something when she picked up the car that day. Her exact words were, 'My daughter hugged her little drawing board tightly as soon as she rounded the bend, saying that the pen was going to shake and ruin the drawing; I'll drive slowly, please don't rush me.'" Xiaomin slowed down her speech. "I know you don't want to be led by any words right now, but I have to give you her exact words."
Hu Li gripped her phone, her knuckles turning white from the pressure, and replied, "Received." After hanging up, she didn't say anything, only resting her forehead against the back of her hand for a moment, as if to calm a sudden wave of emotion. At that moment, he brought out a glass of warm water from the kitchen, stood behind her, and without asking what had happened, gently moved her chair back half an inch to help her breathe more easily.
She took the water, her fingertips still trembling slightly, and scribbled a few words on a sticky note on the corner of the table: Red dress / Receptionist / Xiao Mu / Card number 7 / Large scratch on the right back. After writing, she tore off the note, folded it in half twice, and tucked it into the innermost page of her sketchbook. A moment later, she looked up, her voice flat: "I remembered something." He hummed in response. She looked at the small drawing of a figure, as if speaking to the paper: "After he finished drawing it, he asked me if I liked it, saying he'd give it to me if I did." She smiled faintly, "I said I liked it, and that I'd show it to my mother."
Night crept in, casting two shadows on the glass. Mu Tianlang's phone vibrated; it was a list of front desk staff sent by Xiao Zhou. He recognized one name immediately—Old Song, who had worked in the back office for many years. Next to it was Old Song's handwriting from his youth, very similar to the handwriting of the phrase "the little guest is lost." He immediately dialed the number. The other person recognized him with surprise, becoming much more cautious after Mu Tianlang introduced himself. Mu Tianlang asked a short question: "That night, do you remember a little girl in a red dress?" Old Song was silent, as if rummaging through an old drawer, before finally saying after a long pause, "I remember. She was sitting in a wicker chair in the lobby, holding a painting." Mu Tianlang's fingers suddenly tightened, his knuckles turning white, but his voice remained steady: "Who brought her back?" A name came from the other end of the line, so soft it almost seemed to dissipate in the wind: "Young Master."
The living room lights suddenly warmed, as if something was slowly tightening and then loosening within him. He simply put his phone away, his eyes deep as he turned back, and pulled her into his arms. She was a little breathless from his embrace, but didn't push him away, asking against his chest, "What's wrong?" He paused for a couple of beats, as if adding a lock to himself, and only said, "That's enough for today, let's rest." She looked up, "Okay?" He looked down at her, not answering, but instead pressing the back of her head closer, his voice low and husky, "Don't think about it." His unusual behavior made her heart tighten; she wanted to pursue him, yet couldn't bear to. She remembered his silent figure whenever summer and the sea were mentioned over the years, and finally didn't ask, instead saying, "I'll make you a simple dinner, okay?" He said, "Okay."
She tied on her apron and went into the kitchen; the sound of boiling water brought a sense of peace to the house. He stood in the doorway watching her wash the vegetables and put the noodles into the pot, her movements swift and efficient. She turned and winked at him: "Don't come in and steal my work." He leaned against the doorknob, his Adam's apple bobbing, his tone light yet commanding: "Turn the heat down." She stuck out her tongue and did as she was told. Neither of them talked about memories during the meal, only about the weather and tomorrow's schedule. She asked him if he had to meet with two investment banks before the shareholders' meeting, and he asked her which layer of base paint she was applying to her new painting. It was sweet, like sugar spread on the back of a knife; the edge was still there, but it wasn't so hurtful.
After dinner, he took the dishes to wash, and she sat at the bar, watching him wipe each utensil until it was spotless. She suddenly spoke, "Aren't you afraid?" He didn't turn around. "Afraid of what?" Looking at his back, her voice was even softer, "Afraid I'll find all those broken pieces." He placed the last bowl upside down on the drainer, turned off the water, took off his gloves, then turned around, walked to her, and touched her forehead. "I respect your choice." Her eyes welled up, and she reached out to hug him. "I'm afraid, but I'm even more afraid of not knowing." He hummed in agreement, hugging her tighter, as if trying to block out all the wind from the outside world.
Late at night, Xiaomin sent a photo of the organized photocopies, along with a text message: "Tomorrow I'll go to the traffic management office again to try and piece together the route of the white van during that time period. Also, I'll go back to the resort's front desk and ask around the park; see if I can find any remaining old employees to inquire if any child in red was taken back to the front desk back then." After reading it, Hu Li put down her phone and slowly hugged the small drawing of the red dress to her chest, as if hugging a small piece of summer that had returned too late. She leaned her face against the paper, almost able to hear the sound of the pencil moving across the paper twenty years ago. That pencil belonged to a twelve-year-old boy who was drawing purple vines. After finishing, he asked her if she liked it, saying he would give it to her if she did, and then said, "Wait a minute, I'll take you to the front desk to find someone."
She chuckled softly in the darkness, as if saying to someone who was no longer there, "I'm still waiting for you to finish saying those words."
The distant headlights of cars swept across the wall outside the window, leaving a short patch of light. They didn't speak again, but simply held each other tighter. The answer was already beneath the surface, slowly rising to the surface, its full outline not yet revealed; the pain was still there, but no longer the kind that dragged them down. Only the sounds of breathing and heartbeats filled the room, like the lines left behind by the receding sea.
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