Chapter 27
The notice of business suspension was like a cold pause, forcibly halting all the hustle and bustle of "Corner," and temporarily cutting off Lin Xiaotang's last reason to stay in that city. Faced with the empty shop and the heavy fine, she felt an unprecedented exhaustion, a weariness that seeped from the very marrow of her bones.
Almost as if fleeing, she booked the fastest high-speed rail ticket, her destination being her hometown, a quiet ancient town nestled in the Jiangnan water region, more than a thousand kilometers away from the city.
As the high-speed train sped along, the scenery outside the window gradually changed from dense buildings to open fields, and finally to white-walled, black-tiled houses, small bridges, and flowing water. The familiar scent of water vapor and grass rushed in as the train doors opened, instantly enveloping her with a gentle, soothing power.
Upon learning that their daughter was coming back to stay for an extended period, Mr. and Mrs. Lin were overjoyed. Several days in advance, they began cleaning the waterfront room where she had lived since childhood, airing out the quilts, and preparing various hometown dishes that she loved.
"Tangtang's back! You've lost weight! You must not have been eating properly!" Her mother surrounded her, touching her face with heartache, and quickly took her not-so-heavy luggage.
"It's good that you're back, it's good that you're back. Stay as long as you want!" Her father didn't say much, just smiled kindly, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothing out as he busied himself bringing her freshly brewed, homemade Biluochun tea.
Life in the small town moves at a pace as slow as a winding river. There's no roar of coffee machines, no rushing orders, no need to maintain a smile at all times, and certainly no heart-wrenching arguments or cold, hard truths.
Life became simple and pure.
She woke up to the creaking of oars and the soft sounds of her neighbors washing clothes in the early morning. Her mother would always prepare a variety of breakfasts, sometimes a bowl of steaming eel noodles, sometimes freshly made pan-fried buns, accompanied by rich, well-ground soy milk.
During the day, she would sometimes help her father manage the small grocery store on the street, listening to the old neighbors chat in their soft, local dialect; sometimes she would accompany her mother to the river wharf to buy freshly caught river delicacies, gazing at the clear river water in a daze; most of the time, she would just walk aimlessly along the bluestone path, watching the awning boats slowly glide across the green waves, watching the perfect arc of the ancient stone bridge reflected in the water, and watching the clusters of hydrangeas peeking out from the corner of the wall, looking otherworldly beautiful in the drizzle.
Her parents never questioned why she had suddenly returned or why she seemed so troubled. They simply enveloped her in the most basic and meticulous care. Her mother would remember all her favorite dishes, and her father would quietly repair the slightly loose window frames in her room.
At night, the family sits around the courtyard, eating simple meals, listening to the opera singing on TV, or simply fanning themselves quietly and watching the stars slowly light up in the sky.
Here, no one knew Bai Sinian, no one knew Xu Jiahui. The face in the mirror was no longer someone else's reflection; it was simply the face that Lin Xiaotang, the daughter of the ancient town, was most familiar with. Those sharp pains, the anger of being deceived, and the fear of the future seemed to be gradually soothed, softened, and calmed in the humid and gentle air of Jiangnan, in the silent yet profound love of her parents.
She would still think about those things, and her heart would still ache faintly. But that suffocating despair and self-loathing were gradually replaced by a deeper weariness and a bewildered calm.
Like a wounded bird returning to its nest, she curled up in the safest and warmest harbor, licking her wounds, her breathing gradually becoming steady. Although the weight of what she had lost still weighed on her heart, at least here, she could temporarily stop forcing herself, allow herself to be vulnerable, and slowly, little by little, regain the strength to breathe.
Outside the window, a light drizzle began to fall again, tapping on the green tiles and making a pleasant sound, like a mother's gentle lullaby.
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