Storms and Tranquility
The days and nights have passed thousands of times, and three years have slipped through my fingers like fine sand.
Flour dripped from Wenqing's fingertips onto the precisely graduated electronic scale. In his fourth year as a full-time cook, he'd already updated his recipe to version 7.2—from initially fumbling with a stir-fry pan to now effortlessly manipulating an air fryer, blender, casserole, and oven. On the stovetop sat a handwritten note from Xiaofeng: "Margarita for dinner. Love you, baby," written in her characteristically lively handwriting.
Xiaofeng's motorcycle helmet was still stained with night dew, but her track training, bathed in morning dew, had already begun. Afterward, she headed straight to the business school for a case study on "Supply Chain Risk Management." In the team's locker, three stacks of heavily annotated textbooks lay stacked. On the door was a pencil copy of a drawing by a young girl from Jiangjiawan—she was speeding on a motorcycle, the wheels kicking up a dramatic cloud of dust.
The two of them went to two separate villages. While checking the supply lists across the screen, they discovered that the same date was marked in their phone calendars: December 15th. That day was both Xiaofeng's qualifying round for the Asian Championship and the completion date of the kitchen renovation project for left-behind children that Wenqing was leading.
Wintersweets bloomed quietly in the night, and snowflakes blanketed the Christmas tree in silver, reminiscent of the lights burning all night outside the delivery room. Xiaofeng had just finished a video call with Rao Haiyi, and the warmth of their laughter and conversation still lingered on her phone screen. She tiptoed up the stairs, the wooden staircase creaking softly, like a Christmas Eve tune.
"Boss, the kids are all asleep." Wen Qing stood in the hallway beneath the warm yellow wall lamp and pointed to the half-open door of the children's room. From within came the sound of even breathing. "I'm going to take a shower?" he asked in a low voice, a smile lingering at the end.
Xiaofeng suddenly raised her index finger to her lips, her eyes bright like a child who had stolen candy. "Wait a moment." As she turned, her skirt lifted in a gentle arc, and she disappeared around the corner of the hallway like a snowflake. Wenqing leaned against the frosted glass door of the bathroom, and could hear the ticking of the second hand on his watch, tick, tick, tick, ticking in the silence.
"Here!" She held up a piece of colored paper like a treasure, a rainbow shimmering in the steamy bathroom air. Wen Qing took it and unfolded it. "What's this?"
"Viewing tickets."
Wenqing suddenly bent down and lifted her into the air, drowning Xiaofeng's exclamation in the mist. "You little devil..." He chuckled, biting her burning earlobe. The water droplets from the showerhead danced a cheerful waltz on the tiles.
Two hours later, the phone on the bedside table suddenly vibrated, a trace of anxiety. Xiaofeng's arm, stretched from the covers, still smelled of rose-colored shower gel. Aunt Fan's voice on the other end of the line was like a suddenly taut string: "Zhou Yang is in the emergency room..."
Wen Qing rested his chin on her shoulder, his canine teeth gently grazing the sensitive skin. When Xiao Feng suddenly stood up, he slammed his head against the bed with a cry of pain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." Her frantic fingers traced the red mark on his chin. The cold, urgent message on the other end of the line, but the warmth of his skin on her fingertips.
The moment he hung up the phone, the temperature in the bedroom suddenly dropped. Wen Qing wrapped her in a duvet, cocooning her like a cocoon. The strength of his embrace from behind betrayed his unease. "After we drop the kids off tomorrow," he whispered, kissing the top of her head and running his fingers through her long hair, "I'll go with you."
Xiaofeng buried her face in his chest, which smelled of the same shower gel, and heard their two hearts beating at different frequencies, which eventually gradually overlapped.
On December 25, 2020, Zhou Xiao and Fan Weiwei sat on pins and needles outside the Manlin Hospital ward. When Wenqing and Xiaofeng appeared at the end of the corridor, they jumped to their feet as if struck by lightning. Fan Weiwei rushed forward in two steps, her trembling hands tightly grasping Xiaofeng's wrist, her nails practically digging into her skin. "Thank you for coming." The brokenness in her voice made Xiaofeng's heart tighten.
"What's wrong with Brother Zhou Yang?" Xiaofeng's voice suddenly rose, the incandescent light in the corridor casting a pale light on her suddenly constricted pupils. Fan Weiwei turned her face away, tears drawing a glittering trail in the smell of medical disinfectant, choking and unable to speak.
When Zhou Xiao uttered the word "suicide," Xiaofeng felt the floor tiles beneath her feet suddenly collapse—the word, like a blunt knife, abruptly severing the warmth that should have been part of Christmas. The four of them moved silently to the front of the ward, the metal doorknob condensing with winter's chill. As Zhou Yong and the attending physician pushed the door open, Xiaofeng quickly stopped them: "Dad! Brother Zhou Yang..."
"He's waiting for you." Zhou Yong's voice was like sandpaper, and his lowered head made the white hair at his temples particularly glaring. He mechanically brushed past Xiaofeng, his hand on Wenqing's shoulder heavy as lead. Wenqing slowly sank into the chair at the ward door.
Xiaofeng's fingers paused on the doorknob for three seconds, the chill of the metal creeping up her fingertips and penetrating into her bones. As she pushed the door open, the beeping of the electrocardiogram monitor struck her eardrums like a time bomb's countdown.
The figure on the hospital bed made her hold her breath instantly - Zhou Yang's left wrist was wrapped in bloody gauze, his cheeks were so sunken that the outline of his cheekbones could be seen, and his eyelashes cast spider-web-like shadows on his dark blue eye sockets.
He closed his eyes, and when his eyelids trembled, Xiaofeng realized that the spot of light from the gap in the curtains was falling on the hollow of his collarbone. "Pull the curtains...close..." A hoarse voice suddenly rang out.
Xiaofeng's fingertips touched the hospital bracelet on his right wrist, the plastic edge of which had been worn rough.
The words "Severe Depression" glowed a glaring red on the bedside monitor. Xiaofeng's fingertips brushed Zhou Yang's messy hair, sliding toward his trembling shoulders. "Brother Zhou Yang, don't be afraid." She suddenly ran into a pair of empty eyes—those always full of smiles, now like a dry well.
Zhou Yang suddenly grabbed Xiao Feng's wrist, tears streaming down his face. "You were right not to choose me..." His spine curved into a question mark. "I don't even have the right to choose to leave."
Xiaofeng's thumb stroked the gauze on his left wrist, "Does it still hurt?" This touch made Zhou Yang want to pull his hand away reflexively, but she held it even tighter.
"Remember when my father 'disappeared'?" Xiao Feng suddenly opened his arms, "You need this now." When Zhou Yang's hesitant fingertips were about to drop, she fell into his arms.
"Thank you!" Zhou Yang rested his chin on her shoulder, his voice muffled. "Sometimes I really wish I wasn't a member of the Zhou family. I could just be an ordinary person working from nine to five, cooking meals for my loved ones and picking up the kids from school..."
Xiao Feng tightened his arms around her: "Yeah, being ordinary is so good."
"Grandpa told me the other day," Zhou Yang suddenly stared at the flashing fire indicator light on the ceiling, his irises reflecting an eerie red glow, "the Zhou and Chen families signed a 20 billion yuan agreement." His Adam's apple rolled as he swallowed. "I knelt and served tea as they requested, but Mom still slapped me in public, saying the Zhou family wouldn't keep indecisive losers."
Xiao Feng stared into Zhou Yang's eyes, hoping he could catch the light in them. For a moment, his lips curved into a strange arc. "My fiancée was hanging out with her tennis coach, and someone took intimate photos of her. How ironic..."
She suddenly grasped Zhou Yang's trembling wrist, and the heart monitor's rhythm gradually stabilized. Xiao Feng spoke slowly, "None of these things define your value." She raised her hand to wipe the tears from his eyelashes. "I've always thought Brother Zhou Yang was wonderful—his seriousness when focused, his meticulousness when cooking, his patience with our children—it all touched me. You always supported me unconditionally, whether it was racing or other dreams, and the power of that encouragement was invaluable. And that drone show, that parenting manual—while 'cheesy,' the care you put into those moments still makes me feel beautiful when I think about them now."
"Can we continue?"
“We are continuing in another way.”
Xiaofeng showed the photo on her phone. Zhou Yang's tears splashed onto the screen, blurring the image of the boy with big, dark eyes. "This isn't Lucas, and this isn't Oscar either."
"This is Liou - our child." Xiaofeng's tears hung on her eyelashes, about to fall.
"Our child?" Zhou Yang's tears fell again. Xiao Feng held the back of his twitching hand. "Now, you have to live well for him."
Zhou Yong's knuckles tapped twice on the door, and the sobs in the ward seemed to be cut off by a knife. Xiaofeng was wiping her eyes with her palms when she suddenly pressed her chest, and a short, choking sound came from her throat—as if someone had suddenly clenched her stomach. The moment acid surged up her throat, she stumbled and fell to her knees.
"Be careful!" Zhou Yong grabbed her elbow and helped her to the chair outside the ward.
Wenqing reached out to wipe her damp cheek, his thumb rubbing across her swollen eyelids. "Are you okay?" Before he could finish his words, Xiaofeng had already collapsed into his arms, her ear pressed against his chest. Amidst the rhythmic thump of her heartbeat, she suddenly remembered the intense nausea the minty toothpaste had triggered when she brushed her teeth that morning, and the sudden dizziness she'd felt the day before. Before she could put the pieces together, her stomach cramped again. She pushed Wenqing away and rushed to the trash can, retching.
"Go to the gynecology department." Zhou Yong's voice sounded behind him.
The phone buzzed inside his white coat. The handwriting on the checklist was crystal clear: Xiaofeng, 6 weeks + 3 days pregnant, HCG value 90200. The snow outside the window had stopped falling at some point, and a ray of sunlight penetrated the clouds, landing on the thin piece of paper with a warm glow.
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