The wind had softened by the time Shu Yao stood beside the limousine, the late light bleeding faint gold across the polished surface of the car. His breath misted faintly in the cool air. He waited with his usual stillness—hands clasped before him, eyes lowered, his damp hair now half-dried into soft waves.
The glass doors of the studio parted with a hiss. Bai Qi emerged.
He was immaculate again—dark coat falling cleanly over his shoulders, expression unreadable, as if the chaos of the day had never happened. His gaze swept once over the quiet figure by the car. Not a pause, not a flicker of acknowledgment.
Shu Yao startled when their eyes almost met. He lowered his head immediately, fingers tightening at his sides. When Bai Qi drew closer, he hurried to open the door, moving with careful precision.
The door clicked open.
Bai Qi halted beside it, his gaze slicing toward Shu Yao—sharp, fleeting. The older man did not meet it. His head stayed bowed, breath shallow, body taut as a drawn string.
Behind them, the Suzhou branch assistants hurried forward, their voices bright and nervous.
"Thank you so much for working with us today, Mr. Bai," one said, bowing slightly.
Bai Qi's reply was cool, almost careless. "Whatever."
The assistants exchanged uneasy glances but kept their smiles fixed. "We'll look forward to working with you again, sir."
He said nothing more, merely turned his head away.
As they began to retreat, one of them—the younger one who had rebandaged Shu Yao's hand—paused, glancing toward him. "Mr. Shu," he said gently, "how's your hand now?"
Shu Yao looked up, startled by the sound of his name. His right hand instinctively grasped his left, covering the white bandage. "I—it's fine now," he stammered softly.
Inside the car, Bai Qi's gaze flicked briefly toward them. His eyes narrowed, unreadable.
The assistant gave a polite bow. "Please take care of it, sir." Then he stepped back, joining the others as they departed across the courtyard.
Silence followed.
Shu Yao moved quickly, opening the limousine door, Shu Yao slipped in, settling on the opposite seat, his posture small, hands folded neatly on his lap.
For a moment, only the hum of the city filtered through the tinted glass.
Then Bai Qi spoke. His voice was low, edged with fury restrained. "What was that just now?"
Shu Yao's head lifted slightly, confusion clouding his pale face. "It was nothing, sir. The bandage—it was wet. He just… rebandaged my hand."
Bai Qi turned sharply toward him, eyes flashing. "Hmph. Always gaining pity."
The words hit harder than they should have. Shu Yao's lips parted but no sound came. His shoulders trembled once before he lowered his gaze again, silence swallowing his reply.
The air inside the limousine grew heavy. The heater hummed softly, yet Shu Yao still felt cold—the kind of chill that came from within, not the air.
He clutched the wool of his jacket closer, his fingers pressing against the fabric as a thought brushed through his mind like a whisper.
I can't get sick again. There's no one who would help me now.
The engine started, smooth and low.
The car rolled to a smooth stop before the quiet stone-front house in Beijing. The night had fallen soft and cold, streetlights painting the wet pavement in dull amber. Inside the car, George exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
"I'll be back in a moment," he told the driver.
The Driver nodded. "Yes, sir."
George stepped out into the chilled air. The wind smelled faintly of rain and iron. Shu Yao's house stood at the end of the narrow lane, vines crawling up the side wall. It was the kind of house that seemed to hold its breath—quiet, modest, waiting.
He reached the gate, pushed it open with a faint creak, and stepped into the courtyard. The gravel crunched under his shoes. A soft meow echoed from somewhere inside, distant but distinct. George smiled faintly.
"I am coming, Juju," he murmured.
At the door, he crouched down, lifting the doormat. The key glinted faintly beneath it. George hesitated for a heartbeat—then slid the key into the lock.
The door gave way with a quiet click.
He stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. The faint smell of jasmine tea and sandalwood lingered in the air, mixed with something faintly medicinal—perhaps the remnants of Shu Yao's medicine.
Then came another sound—light paws padding across the floor.
"Juju?" George called softly, turning his head.
The cat meowed again, somewhere upstairs. George followed the sound, his footsteps careful on the wooden stairs. The air grew warmer, gentler, the light from the hallway spilling in thin lines beneath the doors.
At the top of the stairs, he paused before Shu Yao's room. The door was half-open.
"Come out, little Juju," he coaxed.
He pushed the door wider and smiled. There, perched on the edge of the desk, sat juju with one ear slightly bent, blinking up at him. Juju's tail swished lazily, then—without warning—the cat leaped down, brushing affectionately against George's legs.
George laughed softly. "Ah, there you are." He crouched, scratching the cat's chin. "Let's get you some dinner."
As he straightened, his gaze drifted back to the desk.
That's when he saw it.
A slim, leather-bound journal, the edges worn, lying open near a lamp that had been left unplugged. A delicate ribbon peeked from between its pages.
George froze.
George blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. "So… he also writes too," he murmured. A small, crooked smile formed on his lips.
He took a hesitant step closer. His hand hovered over the journal, then retreated. "No, no," he muttered under his breath. "That's not right."
He turned away quickly, heading downstairs.
Minutes later, Juju was curled beside a bowl of food in the kitchen, purring happily. George sat opposite, elbows resting on the table, his gaze unfocused—except it wasn't unfocused. It was fixed on the journal now sitting before him.
He didn't remember bringing it down.
He sighed, long and slow. "This is wrong," he said, voice barely a whisper. "I shouldn't."
His fingers brushed the edge of the cover.
It felt warm.
For a while, he just sat there—listening to the ticking clock, Juju's soft purrs, and his own restless pulse. But curiosity gnawed quietly at the edge of his resolve. Shu Yao was so quiet, so careful with his words; it was impossible not to wonder what he thought when he was alone.
George closed his eyes. "All right, just one page," he said finally, half to himself. "Only One."
He opened it.
The first page made him pause.
The handwriting was uneven, childish—large strokes and tiny mistakes, the kind of writing that belonged to a boy who had barely learned his own language.
George blinked. A faint warmth crept to his face. "He was—what, eight ohh dear?" he murmured, smiling despite himself.
His Mandarin wasn't perfect, but he could make out fragments. Words like dream, rain. Then, beneath it, a shaky line written in smaller letters:
I don't know him, but he made my pain go away.
The words were tender, uncertain—like a whisper preserved in paper.
He stared at the words, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and ache.
It was only one line—one childlike confession—but it lingered.
He told himself that was enough, that he would stop there.
Yet his fingers moved on their own, brushing the edge of the next page, turning it with the same hesitant reverence one might give to a wound.
Each entry was a glimpse—not of dreams or childish wonder, but of longing.
There were no castles, no grand cities, no wishes for adventure.
Only one refrain, written over and over in different ink, in different slants of handwriting as the years passed:
I wished to see him again.
I don't want anything.
I just want him. Only him
I want him to stay with me.
The words blurred under George's gaze. His hand trembled faintly as he traced the edge of the paper, as if the touch itself might summon the boy who wrote them.
George swallowed hard. His gaze lingered there, the words echoing faintly in his chest.
Outside, the wind brushed against the windows. Juju finished eating and climbed into George's lap, curling up as if sensing the shift in his mood.
Then George's fingers froze mid-page.
The next entry was smaller, the ink uneven as if written by trembling hands. The words slanted across the paper, hesitant but tender.
He has black hair. Black eyes. When he looks at me, I forget all the pain.
George stared at the line, the breath leaving his lungs all at once. His eyes flicked to the next sentence, faint and half-smudged by time.
He doesn't know my name, Nor do I.
A silence settled over the kitchen, thick and trembling. The clock ticked once, twice.
George whispered, almost to himself, "Black hair… black eyes."
Then realization struck.
His heart dropped, the air around him seeming to still. "Bai Qi," he breathed, voice rough.
He sank back in the chair, the journal resting open in his lap. Juju stirred, pressing its head against his hand, but George barely felt it. His eyes were still on the page, on those tiny letters that had waited years to be seen.
"So you loved him from the very beginning…" he murmured, the words breaking in the quiet. "All this time, Shu Yao."
He gave a short, bitter laugh that held no amusement. "And he never even saw it."
His gaze lifted toward the ceiling, as if searching for answers that would never come.
"I can't believe it," George said softly, shaking his head. "You were suffering from the very beginning."
The wind outside sighed again, carrying a faint rattle against the panes. The cat purred quietly, unaware of the ache that filled the room.
The limousine slid to a halt before the Four Suzhou Hotel, its polished body gleaming beneath the late light.
Inside, Shu Yao's pulse was uneven. The air felt thick, every breath dragging through his chest like a thread pulled too tight. Fatigue pressed hard behind his eyes, the kind that came not from sleeplessness but from something deeper—an illness he already knew too well.
Still, when the driver stepped out, it was Shu Yao who moved first. He forced the door open, the effort sending a dull ache through his ribs.
"Sir," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Bai Qi emerged without so much as a glance. His stride was clean, deliberate, He didn't notice the faint tremor in Shu Yao's hands, nor the sheen of sweat along his temple
Shu Yao followed, a pale shadow trailing behind.
Inside the grand lobby, marble and gold gleamed beneath chandeliers, the soft murmur of travelers echoing from every side. Bai Qi walked ahead, his pace brisk. Shu Yao tried to match it, his steps growing heavier with each polished tile. His breath hitched once—quietly enough that only the silence caught it.
The lift doors opened with a muted chime. Bai Qi stepped inside, eyes fixed on the mirrored wall ahead. Shu Yao entered after him, his reflection faint and ghostly in the glass.
For a moment, the two stood in silence. The elevator's hum filled the narrow space.
Bai Qi's gaze flicked upward, catching Shu Yao's reflection in the mirror. The boy's complexion was drained of color, his lips faintly parted as though even breathing demanded too much.
But Bai Qi said nothing. He looked away.
The floor numbers blinked upward in a steady rhythm. Shu Yao pressed his palm against the cool rail, his legs threatening to give. The faintest tremor ran through him, hidden beneath his sleeve.
When the doors opened at the top floor, Bai Qi walked out first. Shu Yao followed, slower now, one hand brushing the wall for balance.
He had no strength left. The corridor seemed to tilt beneath his feet, the world blurring at its edges.
Yet even then—he did not speak.
Not a word.
Not a sound.
He simply followed.