When Ren Haoran arrived to pick up Song Linyu, a faint glow had already tinged the horizon, like dappled gray mercury dimly bridging night and day.
The moment the car door swung open, the chill of the early morning dew rushed in. Song Linyu stood beneath the pale greenish expanse of the skyline, his skin so white it seemed almost transparent, like a fragile ornament on display. Yet his expression held no urgency—only an eerie calm. Even after waiting so long in the damp, cold air, he uttered not a single word of complaint.
As soon as Song Linyu slid into the passenger seat, Ren Haoran nearly shivered despite the distance between them. He quickly reached out to crank up the air conditioning by a couple of degrees, then asked out of habit, “To the hotel?”
Song Linyu didn’t reply. Instead, he calmly recited an address. Ren Haoran punched it into the GPS as instructed, but his finger hesitated over the confirm button. The destination was an old rundown neighborhood in the west end of the city—the very place where Song Linyu had lived with his mother during high school.
That crumbling complex was supposed to have been demolished years ago. The tenants had all gradually moved out, leaving it abandoned. But Song Linyu had bought the entire decaying building, propping it up like a relic clinging to life.
He had never returned, though.
Ren Haoran glanced sideways at the man in the passenger seat. Song Linyu was fiddling with his phone, looking utterly nonchalant, as if nothing was amiss.
Ren Haoran swallowed his questions and quietly played the role of chauffeur.
They barely exchanged words the entire drive. When the car entered the neighborhood, the pothole-riddled road kicked up a cloud of yellowish dust. Even with the windows rolled up, Ren Haoran coughed lightly from the grit.
He stared at the pitch-black entrance to the stairwell. The peeling walls were shedding flakes of plaster at the slightest disturbance, raining down white dust.
“Boss,” Ren Haoran couldn’t help asking, “are you sure this dump still has running water and electricity? Is it even livable?”
“It does,” Song Linyu replied, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading into the stairwell.
Just then, Ren Haoran’s phone buzzed wildly. He fumbled to check it, and the screen lit up with over twenty unread emails—all from Song Linyu, all demanding a full financial audit.
“Boss… what does this mean? You’re asking us to do the year-end audit months ahead of schedule?” Ren Haoran scrolled through the dense list of attachments, his brows furrowing deeper with each one.
Most of these reports contained data that no outsider or agency should ever see. The private accounts were a deliberate mess. For Song Linyu to demand a crystal-clear breakdown of every fund flow right in the middle of their busiest crunch time… it was downright odd.
Song Linyu’s steady footsteps echoed from the rusty stairwell. “Something like that,” his voice drifted down from above, reverberating faintly in the empty corridor. “Do it as fast as you can.”
Ren Haoran hesitated, then sighed in resignation. “Got it.” He’d have to pull all-nighters to get it done.
The rusted iron gate reeked of sharp metallic tang, like rain-soaked bloodstains left to fester for years. Song Linyu fished the key from his bag. It grated against the lock cylinder with stubborn resistance, jamming halfway before finally turning—just like the days he’d come home from school.
Nothing inside had changed. The worn wooden floorboards still creaked faintly underfoot. The cobalt-blue full-length mirror in the living room—standard issue in homes across the country—remained embedded behind the TV wall, though a thick layer of dust dulled its surface, blurring his slender reflection into something distorted and hazy.
The shadow in the dust seemed warped, as if separated from reality by another dimension.
For a fleeting moment, Song Linyu imagined he could still see another figure in the mirror—a woman.
She would sit on that chilly wooden sofa, wrapped in her threadbare blanket, quietly reading or silently weeping. She was like a rare orchid transplanted to barren soil, utterly out of place in this dilapidated home.
The way she looked at Song Linyu was always complicated. At first, it was icy hatred, but over time, that hatred wore away into a weary tenderness. For so many nights, they had only each other. She could have left at any time, but she stayed—in this old house she once swore never to set foot in—depending on him for survival.
That was why Song Linyu would never forget the day she left.
It was the day of the monthly school exams. The homeroom teacher had everyone move the desks into two rows outside, and Su Tang, as usual, stuffed his stack of heavy textbooks into his drawer, twisted his wrist dramatically, and whined, “Ow, my hand hurts so bad today. Anyone wanna volunteer to move my desk for me?”
A crowd gathered, eager to fawn over him, but Su Tang clearly wasn’t satisfied. The one line he wanted to hear hadn’t come.
He waited a beat longer, then lost patience and went on the offensive. Tapping Song Linyu’s desk with his pen tip, he tilted his head and asked, “Hey, desk mate, mind giving me a hand?”
Before Song Linyu could respond, Su Tang’s entourage swarmed him. One of them snatched the book from his hand, holding it high and sneering, “Tang Tang’s talking to you. Didn’t you hear?”
Song Linyu looked up to meet his gaze. After a moment, he silently stood, rolled up his school uniform sleeves, bent down, and hauled Su Tang’s desk out to the hallway.
He wasn’t particularly strong to begin with, and Su Tang hadn’t bothered clearing his desk. The moment it hit the corridor floor, stationery and textbooks scattered everywhere with a clatter.
The classroom cleaner was mopping the tiles right then, leaving a slick trail of water. Su Tang watched in horror as his books soaked up the filth, gray stains bleeding into the edges of the pages.
He shot to his feet, jabbing a finger at Song Linyu. “What the hell? Look what you did to my books!”
Song Linyu gave him a cold glance, too lazy to argue. He scooped up the books, slapped them back on the desk, muttered a flat “Sorry, we can swap if you want,” and headed to the bathroom to rinse the grime from between his fingers.
He scrubbed his palms raw before stopping, then shook off the water in disgust.
Even with a solution offered, Su Tang had no intention of letting it go. But the exam bell rang, and the proctor was weaving through the halls with stacks of test papers, barking at everyone to get back to their seats.
The school’s schedule was grueling, especially in Song Linyu’s advanced class. The plan was to rearrange desks after the exam, assign cleanup during evening self-study, and squeeze in the midterms parent-teacher conference to save half a day.
Song Linyu finished his exam quickly. He was usually the obedient type who waited out the full time despite the teacher’s strict no-early-submissions rule. Today, though, he ignored the disapproving stares and left half an hour early.
The reason was simple: his mother, Song Lingyi, had decided to attend his parent-teacher conference that day.
Song Linyu wanted to head back early to meet her, so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable climbing the stairs under a crowd of stares.
This conference mattered because Song Lingyi had never shown the slightest interest in his grades before.
As a child, he’d proudly shown her perfect scores, only to get a cold glance or outright indifference. Eventually, he stopped trying, even avoiding her line of sight.
Lately, though, she had changed.
It started with frequent messages from her, her pale face occasionally breaking into a smile. Song Lingyi had always been a loner, lost in her books, rarely speaking to anyone. But these past few months, she hadn’t lost her temper once.
Sometimes, she’d stare at Song Linyu for a long time, then murmur, “He probably won’t hate you…” before earnestly warning him, “You have to be good.”
Song Linyu nodded, puzzled. Then she said, “Behave yourself, and your uncle won’t get mad when he sees you.”
Uncle?
Song Linyu frowned in confusion.
It was the first time Song Lingyi had mentioned any other family. Looking into his eyes, she stressed, “My own brother, Song Lingze. Not that man… not him…”
Her voice grew agitated toward the end. Song Linyu hurried to fetch her some water. “I got it. I remember Uncle’s name.”
Song Lingyi calmed down after drinking, then—uncharacteristically—checked his backpack and pulled out his report card.
“First place,” she said, her tone laced with surprise. “Do the teachers like you?”
Song Linyu had held the top spot for ages, but hearing her ask now felt years too late. Still, he felt a rare flutter of nerves and whispered earnestly, “They do.”
The report card included a notice for the midterms parent-teacher conference analysis. Song Lingyi had never attended one before, but this time she folded the paper carefully and looked up at him solemnly. “I’ll be there for your conference. Don’t lie. Keep being good.”
Song Linyu stared at Song Lingyi, his lips parting soundlessly, like a child who had forgotten how to speak. He nodded vigorously, his light-colored eyes gradually lighting up like amber aglow with sunlight.
The same shade as Song Lingyi’s eyes.
Song Lingyi seemed a bit unaccustomed to it too. She scratched at the blanket draped over her lap and cleared her throat lightly. “Then go do your homework. Remember to call me that day—I’m not too familiar with the way to the school.”
“Mm.” Song Linyu murmured softly. “I’ll come pick you up… Mom.”
He rarely called Song Lingyi “Mom” at home. They were like the most familiar of strangers, and such warm terms seldom crept into their everyday conversations.
Song Lingyi’s hand paused midway through opening the medicine bottle to take her pills. She turned her head and gazed for a very, very long time at this child of hers—the boy who had grown up so much in quiet solitude. At last, she flashed Song Linyu a gentle, radiant smile.
Song Lingyi was an exceedingly warm and luminous beauty. When she smiled like that, even the rundown room seemed to brighten with life. She had always loved to smile back in the day, but as a child, she had lost herself in simple fairy tales, without the instincts to protect herself or spot malice. So when setbacks struck, she lacked the courage to start anew.
Now, at last, she felt the urge to step out of her nightmare.
…
Song Linyu bolted down the stairs at almost a sprint.
The breeze he kicked up billowed the hem of his oversized school uniform, catching the warm glow of the sunset. He fished his phone from his backpack and dialed Song Lingyi. It rang and rang with no answer, so he dialed again with patient resolve, figuring she might have dozed off and not woken yet—
A mechanical female voice delivered a polite rejection in his ear. At the same moment, Su Tang’s lofty, leisurely voice called out from ahead.
“In such a hurry, Song Linyu? Where are you rushing off to?”
His path forward was completely blocked by Su Tang.
