echo
Heavy footsteps echoed in the silent stairwell, each step leaving a trail of water and dark marks. Tan Huaiyu took out his key, his fingertips stiff from the prolonged cold and dampness. After several attempts, he finally managed a soft click as he opened the peeling paint on the security door.
A faint smell of dust and cheap air freshener wafted in. The room was dark, with only the dim glow of the streetlights outside filtering through the thin curtains, barely outlining the room's simple structure.
This is a typical old-style one-bedroom apartment, not very large, about forty square meters. Upon entering, there is a small entryway, a narrow bathroom on the right, and further in, a large open-plan space that serves as both a living room and a bedroom.
At the far end, there was an open-plan kitchen with a small single bed crammed into the corner. The furniture was minimal: a dusty fabric sofa, an old wooden table, two wooden chairs, and a simple floor-standing wardrobe—that was all.
The walls were somewhat yellowed, and near the ceiling, there were winding, dark brown water stains left by water seepage. The floor was covered with cheap, dark-colored linoleum that was starting to peel and curl at the edges.
It was very simple, even dilapidated. But compared to where he had lived before, it was surprisingly clean.
There are no elaborate Baroque decorations, no expensive and heavy carpets, no antique ornaments that never get polished, and no omnipresent, suffocating, cold, and scrutinizing gazes that flaunt wealth.
Here lies only the reality of poverty, and a utter, forgotten tranquility.
Tan Huaiyu stood at the doorway, soaked to the bone, water droplets dripping from his hair and clothes, forming a small puddle on the floor. He didn't go in immediately, but stood there silently, his gaze blankly sweeping over this unfamiliar place that would henceforth be called home.
Cold. The biting cold seeped in through his soaked clothes, penetrating to his very bones, causing his body to tremble uncontrollably.
But what's even harder to bear than the cold is the bone-deep, empty weariness. It's like trekking thousands of miles, finally reaching the destination, only to find that before you lies a wasteland, and behind you, there's no way back.
He slammed the door shut, shutting out the sound of the rain outside and the rest of the world. The click of the lock closing sounded particularly crisp, and also particularly...lonely, in the quiet room. He didn't turn on the light, letting himself sink into darkness, with only the dull, endless patter of raindrops hitting the windowpane as the sole background noise.
He took off his soaking wet, heavy school uniform jacket and tossed it on the ground with a soft "thud".
Finally, barefoot, he stepped onto the cold, rough linoleum floor and walked step by step toward the dusty sofa in the center of the room.
The cold, slightly sticky feel of the linoleum floorboards traveled from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, bringing a faint sliver of clarity to his hazy consciousness. The sensation was so unfamiliar, yet so…real. It reminded him that he was truly here.
After leaving that magnificent tomb, after enduring that humiliating downpour, in this... cold, empty, and unfamiliar box that belonged only to him.
He stood in front of the sofa, and then, slowly, slowly, he bent down, as if using up his last bit of strength, and sank himself into the sofa.
The sofa was hard; the springs inside had probably long since lost their elasticity, and they were digging into him painfully. He curled up, hugging his cold knees tightly with his arms, burying his face deep, deep into the back of his legs.
His wet hair clung to his neck and cheeks, cold and sticky, but he was oblivious. He simply remained in that position, motionless, like a small animal wounded in a storm, shivering and licking its wounds in the only damp cave it could find.
The room was quiet. The only sounds were the rain and his own suppressed, almost inaudible breathing.
In the darkness, his senses seemed to become more acute. He could hear his heart beating slowly and heavily in his chest, thump, thump, thump... each beat sounding like a hollow echo hitting the empty walls.
He could feel the heat being taken away as the moisture evaporated from his skin, and he could feel the cold slowly and greedily eroding his remaining body heat.
He could smell the faint, musty odor in the air, as well as the rainwater and dirt on his body, and... a faint, lingering stench from the trash can he had brought back from school.
His eyes were closed, but it wasn't pitch black before him. Images flashed uncontrollably, scene by scene.
It was the messy desks in the classroom, the disgusting filth in the drawers, the glaring red words on the books, and the undisguised mockery, contempt, and glee on the faces of those people.
It was Tan Zhenye's seemingly concerned face, yet with a hidden calculation and smugness in his eyes. It was the cold, ink-smelling documents handed over by the lawyer. It was the icy touch of fingertips gliding across the paper as you signed your name.
As I walked out of the heavy gate of the Tan family's old mansion, I heard a barely audible sigh behind me, a sigh of relief mixed with mockery.
Then, the scene changes.
It was the pale light outside the convenience store, the meager luggage at my feet, and the unfathomable, silent eyes of someone across the street, pushing a bicycle and looking over through the traffic.
It was the steaming heat from the noodle shop, the silent, almost motionless profile of the person across from me, and finally, the resolute figure of that person stepping onto their bicycle and riding into the night without hesitation or looking back.
And... even earlier. Many years ago, on that bloody night, with its torrential rain. There were women's piercing screams, men's frantic roars, the shrill sound of shattering glass, and the dark red liquid meandering across the ground...
There was another boy, his eyes bloodshot, like a cornered beast, holding a knife, covered in blood, standing amidst the carnage, his gaze filled with deep-seated hatred, as if he wanted to tear him apart...
No.
Tan Huaiyu suddenly tightened his arms, his nails digging deep into the flesh, causing a sharp, stinging pain. He shook his head violently, as if trying to shake off these uncontrollable, terrifying images. His wet hair rubbed against the skin of his knees, cold and sticky.
I can't think about it. I can't think about those things.
Once you start thinking about it, you can't hold on any longer.
He needed to think about something else. Something... something that would make him feel that all of this might still have some meaning.
So he forced himself to think about those eyes. Not eyes filled with hatred, but calm, silent eyes, looking at him through a mask, through the dining table, through the rain. He imagined him pushing his bicycle, standing under the streetlight, his tall yet lonely figure.
I remember that bowl of silent, condescendingly warm beef noodles. I remember his occasional, fleeting glances at me, complex and unfathomable.
Brother Qi Shuo...
This name, like a faint yet persistent ray of light, pierced the boundless darkness and coldness within his heart. It brought a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, followed by a deeper, sharper pain.
Qi Shuo hated him for that. He hated Tan Huaiyu, who was like his father—gloomy, paranoid, bloodthirsty, and ruthless.
He knew. He always knew.
Therefore, he had to hide.
He had to lock that dark, insane, destructive self deep, deep into the darkest corner of his heart. He had to become "clean," even if only superficially.
He had to be like Xiao Jue, like Qin Zhou, like any ordinary, normal person who might make Qi Shuo not so dislike him.
Even if this disguise is so clumsy and so vulnerable, like a glass shell that could shatter at any moment.
Everything that happened at school today—the insults, the trampling, the blatant malice… He could have made a million ways to make those people wish they were dead.
He didn't even need to lift a finger; he only needed to say a few words, and people eager to curry favor with the Tan family, or those he could use against, would naturally clean things up for him. Just like before. Just like his father had taught him.
But he didn't. He endured it. Like a real, toothless, broken-backed wild dog, he silently and humiliatingly cleaned up the mess.
Then, in the pouring rain, I walked back to this cold, empty "home".
Because it is not possible.
Because Qi Shuo would hate it.
Because Qi Shuo likes "clean" people.
Because... he didn't want to, and couldn't, see even the slightest bit of disgust and... fear towards him in those eyes again.
This thought, like a cold needle, pierced through all his pretense and numbness, bringing a sharp, almost convulsing pain.
It was colder than the cold in his body, colder than being soaked by the rain, and more unbearable than the mocking looks and malicious words.
He arched his back abruptly, burying his face deeper into his knees, biting his lower lip tightly until he tasted blood. The trembling in his body intensified, not from cold, but from an uncontrollable spasm spreading from the depths of his soul.
The icy liquid, mixed with the undried rain on my face, slid down my cheeks, hot, and dripped onto the cold linoleum floor, leaving a dark stain.
There was no sound. Only the silent, violent shrugging of the shoulders, and the suppressed, broken breaths squeezed from the depths of the throat.
I don't know how much time had passed. The rain outside the window seemed to have lessened a bit; the sound of it tapping on the glass was no longer so frequent, but it was still drizzling on and on.
Tan Huaiyu finally stopped trembling. He slowly, extremely slowly, raised his head. His face was wet, it was hard to tell whether it was rain or something else.
Amber eyes opened in the darkness, revealing a vast, unfathomable stillness.
All the emotions—pain, struggle, violence, grievance, despair—seemed to have burned away in that silent collapse, leaving only cold embers.
He remained curled up, motionless.
A sharp, familiar cramping pain shot through his stomach. He realized he hadn't eaten anything since noon. At that moment, hunger, along with the cold and exhaustion, swept over him, threatening to devour him.
But he didn't want to move. Not even a little. Just sitting here, until the end of time, until his body stiffened, his blood congealed, and he became a cold statue—that didn't seem so bad. Let the rain wash away all traces, let the darkness swallow all sounds, let this cold world, along with himself, fall into silence.
But……
Those eyes flashed through my mind again. Calm, silent eyes, looking at me through the rain.
"...Study hard and don't overthink things."
A dry voice, carrying a hint of weariness that was barely perceptible, perhaps even to himself, seemed to rise again in the silent room.
Tan Huaiyu's eyelashes trembled very slightly. He stared at the clump of wet clothes on the floor for a long, long time. Then, he moved.
He slowly and with great effort loosened his arms that were tightly wrapped around himself.
Because he had maintained one posture for too long, his arms and legs were stiff and numb; any movement caused a sharp, stabbing pain. He didn't care.
He gripped the sofa armrest and slowly, step by step, stood up. His bare feet touched the cold floor, the chill biting, but he seemed oblivious to it.
He staggered to the wall, groped around, and found the switch.
A soft "snap" sound.
The dim, yellowish incandescent light instantly filled the small space, making him squint. The light wasn't bright, even somewhat dim, but it was enough to dispel most of the darkness and make the simple room even clearer—the cracks in the walls, the peeling paint, the warped linoleum, the worn furniture—everything was laid bare.
It also illuminated his own path.
The mirror was on the wall by the door. He slowly turned his head and looked at his reflection.
The person in the mirror had a face so pale it was almost transparent, lips devoid of color, and wet hair that clung messily to their forehead and cheeks, still dripping water.
His eyes were red-rimmed, with dark, undeniable bluish-black circles beneath them. There was no light in his eyes, only a bottomless, weary, stagnant stillness.
Disheveled, fragile, and easily broken. Like a beautiful but shattered piece of porcelain that had been carelessly discarded and soaked in rain for a long time.
Tan Huaiyu stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. Then, slowly, extremely slowly, he twitched the corner of his mouth. It was a cold, emotionless smile, even tinged with self-mockery.
He turned away, no longer looking in the mirror. He walked to the pile of wet clothes, bent down, and picked them up. The cold, heavy fabric clung to his skin, sending another chill down his spine. He carried them to the bathroom door, opened it, and threw the wet clothes into the old, yellowed enamel bathtub.
Then he turned on the tap. A stream of icy water gushed out, splashing onto his wet clothes with a rushing sound.
He stood by the bathtub, watching the water gradually submerge the clothes, watching them float and tangle like seaweed. Then, he reached out and turned off the tap.
He walked back to the center of the room and stood under the dim yellow light. The light cast his thin shadow long on the mottled wall, like a silent, lonely silhouette.
He raised his hand and, with his cold fingers, slowly combed through his wet hair, tucking the stray strands behind his ears. The movements were slow and meticulous, as if he were performing some kind of ritual.
Then he walked to the simple wardrobe and opened it. It was empty except for a few neatly folded clothes he had brought with him that day.
He took out a clean, soft gray set of loungewear. The fabric was cotton, very ordinary. He had bought it at a regular department store with part of the "buyout" fee, no longer the expensive custom-made style he was used to.
He changed into clean clothes, the soft fabric against his cold skin bringing a tiny bit of warmth.
Then he opened the refrigerator, which contained only a few bottles of mineral water and some of the cheapest bread and rice balls he had bought from a convenience store.
He took out a bottle of water, unscrewed it, tilted his head back, and gulped down several mouthfuls. The icy liquid slid down his throat and into his empty, aching stomach, bringing with it an even more intense spasm.
He frowned, put down his water bottle, and picked up a plastic-sealed rice ball. He tore open the packaging, stared at the cold, sticky clump of rice and filling for a few seconds, and then slowly, mechanically, ate it, bite by bite. It tasted like cardboard.
After finishing his meal, he threw the packaging into the corner trash can and drank a few more sips of water. The cramps in his stomach eased a little, but the cold, empty feeling remained.
He walked to the window and pulled back the curtains a crack. Outside, the rain had lessened, turning into a light drizzle. The dim yellow light of the streetlights spread across the wet ground, and occasionally a car would drive by, splashing water. The streets were empty, with few pedestrians. The whole world seemed to be immersed in the weary silence that followed the heavy rain.
Tan Huaiyu stood there, looking out the window. Half of his face was hidden in shadow, while the other half was illuminated by the faint light from outside. His eyes reflected the scattered lights outside, but they held no warmth, only a bottomless, desolate stillness.
He needs to live. To live "cleanly," to live like a "normal person." To get into university, leave this place, have enough money, and be independent. And then…
And then what happened? He didn't know.
Perhaps, we can only watch from afar. Or perhaps, we can get a little closer to that light. Even just a tiny bit closer, to feel a tiny bit of its lingering warmth.
Or perhaps... he dared not think about it, nor did he want to think about it.
That "maybe" is too extravagant, too dangerous, like phosphorescence flickering in the darkness; getting too close will only burn you.
Outside the window, the rain finally stopped.
The clouds parted a bit, revealing a corner of deep blue, damp sky and a few blurry, distant stars.
In the last second before he sank completely into darkness, the last thing that flashed through his mind was the resolute figure pushing a bicycle and leaving without hesitation in the rain.
Then, everything fell silent.
Only the sound of the wind outside the window occasionally swept across the empty street, making a soft, sobbing sound, as if telling a story of the cold, unknown sorrow of this rainy night.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com