Unspoken Farewell
As night deepened, the city skyline seemed shrouded in a thin mist, the lights outside the glass fragmented into tiny pieces, spreading along the edge of the distant elevated highway. Only a desk lamp illuminated the office, its light circling the desktop in a pale gold hue. Mu Tianlang leaned back in his swivel chair, his shoulders taut, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he were forcibly suppressing something.
"Mr. Mu, this is the financial analysis report you requested." Xiao Zhou knocked on the door and came in, putting down a thick stack of folders that could hold the wind in place. He spoke cautiously, "The finance department has cross-referenced the data, and the analysis department has also conducted sensitivity tests... It includes an assessment of potential recent collaborations with the Jiang family."
"Leave it there," he nodded. The door closed, and silence returned. He pulled the documents closer, the sound of pages turning crisp and thin. The charts, like cold water snakes, snaked along the pages, from cash flow to liabilities to external ratings, plunging downwards.
He turned to page seven, his brows furrowing even more. Cash flow pressures were nearing the breaking point, the numbers like tiny nails driven into his knuckles; the expansion into several overseas markets was stalled due to policy and exchange rate restrictions, the progress bar stuck at a frustrating percentage; his partners were watching and waiting, their emails increasingly "cautious," like trying to pull themselves back while still managing a smile.
The last page is the "Recommendation." The analysis department's handwriting is dry, but the conclusion is straightforward: if a strategic alliance with Chiang Kai-shek is restarted, it can solve the immediate problem and potentially give them control in the next round of consolidation. Two words are highlighted in red in the upper right corner: stable narrative, long-term binding.
He closed the document, clasped his hands to his lips, knuckles pressing against his chin. His expression was expressionless, but his breathing became heavier. He knew this wasn't a threat, nor was it someone putting on airs—it was a final ultimatum delivered by reality. Someone walked past the door, the heels making short, sharp scraping sounds on the carpet before fading away. He closed his eyes, the ringing in his ears slowly receding in the dim light, but the approaching footsteps felt like waves—from his family, from the board of directors, from that circle of markets that always looked at numbers, not people.
As the heir to the Mu family business, he knew all too well the price of not compromising: it wasn't just losing a project or having a bad quarter, but that the very foundation of the entire company would crumble. So, could he hold onto her? His gaze fell on the small card on the corner of the table—a thin card with the word "Come Back" written by Hu Li in fine handwriting, the strokes steady, like a string holding someone back in the wind.
He flipped his phone over, screen down, as if to suppress the restlessness in his chest. After a long while, he finally got up, grabbed his coat, and headed for the elevator. His knuckles brushed against the icy metal edge of the elevator wall, feeling a tingling sensation.
——
The night deepened, and a cold breeze pushed open a crack at the end of the corridor. As soon as the door opened, a warm, wheat-colored wood scent wafted out. Only a floor lamp was lit in the living room, its light soft, as if someone had deliberately dimmed the brightness by placing their hand on the lampshade. Hu Li was curled up in the corner of the sofa, wrapped in a thick blanket, clutching a black notebook, her fingers slowly tracing the edges of the pages. She heard the door lock click and looked up. Her gaze first met his weariness, then the heavy thud in his throat.
"What's wrong today?" Her voice was soft, like a thread reaching out first, testing his temperature.
"It's nothing." He draped his coat over the back of the chair, his heels tapping lightly on the floor. Walking over to her, he didn't sit down, but instead bent his knees, one knee landing firmly on the carpet. This height put him at eye level with her. He reached out and took her cold hand in his, his warm palm slowly pressing against hers. His gaze was deep yet steady, like a wolf slowly sheathing its teeth, revealing a soft spot in its chest that it never showed to anyone.
"The board's internal report has arrived," he said, his voice hoarse, as if his throat had been rubbed with sandpaper. He paused for a second, then added, "My mother also wrote a letter."
She didn't ask about the words in the letter; she simply intertwined her fingers with his and gently traced the space between his thumb and forefinger with her fingertip. She knew he had come to talk about that matter.
"They say," he said, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, as if a breath was stuck under his collarbone, "that the Mu family now only has one way out—a marriage alliance."
She didn't argue. Her gaze slowly darkened, like a newly developed photograph floating in water, the colors sinking. She closed the notebook, set it aside, and looked up at him: "What do you think?"
He lowered his eyes, his forehead lingering on the back of her hand, his voice even lower: "I've tried to stall, to negotiate, to try to come up with new solutions... but we're backed into a corner."
She looked at him, without looking away. She knew he wanted an answer; and she knew that this answer imprisoned him, and imprisoned her as well. She didn't speak immediately, but simply raised her other hand, her fingertips gently tracing the taut wrinkle between his brows.
He looked up, a rare hint of panic in his eyes, like someone who had always stood firm suddenly stumbling. "I know it's unfair," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "But please, stay here with me, don't go, don't leave me alone." He gripped her hand tightly, his knuckles turning white, like a rope stretched too taut in the wind.
Her heart felt as if a fine needle was piercing it inch by inch, the pain acutely conscious. She raised her hand, covering his cheek, her fingertips sliding down the coldness of his cheekbone to his lips, where she stopped. Her eyelashes trembled, her eyes welled with tears, but she didn't let them fall. "Tianlang...you know I can't."
He didn't speak, his throat bobbing as if he were trying to swallow a low growl.
"As long as I stay," she took a breath, pushing the words out one by one, "I'll become the mistress who ruined your marriage and destroyed your future. People outside won't care if you were forced into it, or if we were already in love; they'll only look at the headlines." She smiled faintly. "I don't want to see myself that way, and I don't want you to be burdened by anyone's words."
He froze, as if all his strength had been drained away in that instant. His hand was still holding hers, but it felt like he was holding the wind.
"It's not that I don't love you." She leaned forward slightly, her forehead gently touching his, their breaths mingling in that small space, carrying his coolness and her warmth. "It's that I can't, I really can't."
He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on her knee, like a wolf finally giving up, his shoulders slumping in a single breath. His hands were pressed against her knees, his skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat from the effort. He whispered, as if declaring a sentence to her, and to himself: "I can only stay with you until spring."
The living room was quiet. The light from the floor lamp shade dimmed slightly, the radiator hummed rhythmically, and the hands of the clock on the wall moved forward a notch. Tears finally welled up in her eyes, but she forcefully forced them back. She reached out, her other hand covering his face, cupping it in her hands, her palms brushing against his stubble, feeling a slight prickliness. "Is spring... coming to an end?"
He looked up and saw his own disheveled reflection in her eyes. He clasped her hand to his chest, pressing it against his pounding heart, and whispered, "Not yet. There's still a whole spring ahead. I'll dedicate every single moment to you."
Her throat bobbed, as if she had swallowed a hard fruit pit. "And then what after spring?"
He didn't answer immediately. He reached out and gently untied her hair tie, pressing his fingertips against the back of her neck, then again, as if to reassure her and himself. "After spring," he paused, his voice like it had been rubbed by sand, "I will take back everything that is due. No matter the conditions, I will not use marriage as a bargaining chip."
She looked at him, not placing too much hope in him, and simply wrote a word on the back of his hand with her fingertip, then gently traced it again: "faith"—like pressing a mark into his palm, reminding him to settle his heart here and hold on to the present moment.
He grasped the fingertip, his fingertip enveloping it. "Okay, tonight is all yours."
——
He didn't leave the living room for long that night. She went to the kitchen and ladled out some soup, with scallions and a few drops of oil floating on top. She placed the soup in front of him: "Have a sip."
He picked it up, the steam rising to his head, as if the sting in his throat was being eased a little. He finished drinking, placed the bowl on the table, and the bottom of the bowl made a soft thud on the wooden table. He looked at her, about to speak.
She spoke first: "Stop beating around the bush, let's get this straight. We'll separate when spring comes. Until then, I'll decide the schedule: you go to work during the day, and I'll stay home and paint; in the evenings we'll be together—eat, take a walk, look at something, but we won't talk about 'the future.' Reserve one night a week for me, whether it's going to the beach or seeing an exhibition, it's fine."
He stared at her for two seconds, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he nodded: "Okay."
She held up her little finger and smiled brightly: "Pinky promise, no take-backs."
He reached out and hooked his arm around hers, his fingers tightening around hers, his voice low: "No regrets." Then he pulled her down to sit beside him, placing his hand on her knee, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric. "Just for a little while."
She didn't press him further. She knew he was pulling his emotions back, like slowly sheathing a sharp knife. She rested her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, and whispered, "Then I'll go wash the grapes. Wait for me."
He hummed in response, as if in reply to her, but also as if in reply to himself.
——
Late at night, he poured himself half a glass of water in his study, the water tapping softly against the glass. He stood by the window, closing the cracks tightly, and looked out through the glass. In the distance, a few lights on the horizon resembled sleepless eyes. He sat back down at his desk, turned on his computer, and replied to Jiang's email: deliver an alternative plan within forty-eight hours; the marriage alliance is not under discussion; if a stable narrative is needed, board seats, performance-based clauses, and long-term supply contracts can be used for protection. As he pressed the send button, a long breath escaped his throat as if someone had released a throbbing sensation.
He silenced his work phone and put it away. He had so much to say, but he didn't send the last message. He took out a note and wrote, "Sleep well." Next to it, he drew her usual smile with her eyes curving into crescents. He tucked the note into his pocket, intending to place it beside her.
When he returned to the living room, she was already asleep on the sofa. The thin blanket had slipped down to her waist, revealing a glimpse of her porcelain-white ankles. He knelt down, first pulling the blanket up, his fingertips accidentally brushing against the instep of her foot, causing her to flinch. He casually pressed the note into the corner of her black leather notebook on the coffee table, so she would see it immediately upon waking. He chuckled softly, leaned down, and placed a barely audible kiss on her forehead, his voice so low it only reached his own ear: "Wait until I get past this hurdle."
——
The next day, the sky cleared, and light streamed in through the blinds. He sat in his office, colder than usual, speaking less, even his gaze seemed frozen.
Xiao Zhou came in carrying a stack of documents, asking for his signature: "President Mu, these contracts, seals, payment applications—urgent." He nodded, his pen falling page by page, his fingers aching from signing.
His phone kept popping up notifications, and the red dots on the screen went from one to a string. The board of directors' group kept sending messages urging him to act: "[Please handle the group's current affairs as soon as possible] [We need a decision that can reassure the market] [Provide a statement by this afternoon]"; the public relations department was also tagging him in the channel: "[Unfavorable news has already been released to the market, and the media is asking questions. Please confirm your public statement]."
He picked up his water glass and put it down again, signing as he read, his knuckles tracing circles along the edge of the paper, his tone remaining calm: "The contract will be released first; the official seal will be issued through the fast track; the official statement to the public—contingency plan B will be activated first."
The messages kept coming in, and the phone kept ringing. He silenced his phone, closed his pen, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes for a moment, and suppressed his stubbornness. Only one thought remained in his mind—tonight, I'll keep my promise.
——
Night fell again. He pushed open the door and entered the house; the living room light was on as usual. She draped a blanket over her shoulders and came barefoot to take his coat: "You're back."
He hung up his coat, tossed his phone into the drawer, and leaned half a step closer to her: "Are you hungry?"
"It's alright, how about you?" She pointed to the kitchen, "There are still some wontons from yesterday in the fridge, I'll make two bowls."
"I'll do it." He rolled up his shirt sleeves to wash his hands. She hugged him from behind and laughed, "Let's divide the work. I'll make the noodles, you chop the scallions."
"Okay." The two of them were busy in the kitchen with their sleeves rolled up. The water in the pot was boiling loudly, and steam was rising from the window. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and she nudged him lightly with her shoulder: "Don't sneak a bite." He obediently put the chopsticks back on the plate.
He placed the bowl on the table and pushed it forward, saying, "Eat first." She scooped up a spoonful, gasped because it was hot, looked up at him, and smiled, "It's delicious."
That night, they didn't mention the company or the arranged marriage. They only talked about the puppy they saw on the street that day, the composition they'd gotten stuck on halfway through drawing, and whether they should change the restaurant for dinner the next day. She said it depended on what time he got off work; he said, "You can decide." She reached out to straighten his collar, and he squeezed her hand, whispering, "It's fine like this."
After dinner, she washed the dishes, and he wiped the table. The water tapped softly in the steel sink; she hung her apron back on the wall, he dried the table, and casually pulled her closer, tapping her forehead: "Go to the sofa."
The next few days went as planned: during the day, he was in meeting after meeting at the company; she moved her easel to the window, stacking canvases one by one, the paint layer upon layer thicker and thicker. In the evenings, they would go for a walk together, the fallen sycamore leaves crunching crisply under their feet; sometimes they would watch a movie, she would doze off on his shoulder, and he would turn the volume down to the lowest setting. There was a small calendar on the refrigerator, and she would mark each day with a red pen, as if counting down to spring, and also marking each "today" for the two of them.
Before spring, he would shield himself from all the dangers; she would fill her paintings even more, as if trying to preserve a complete season for the two of them. They knew that some words had to be said and some battles had to be fought; but at this moment, they simply drew closer to each other, making sure that "today" was filled with no blanks.
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