For Lin Qing Yun, solitude was never a burden.
Silence came to her as naturally as breath—an ease, a shelter, a habit. To live quietly, to be unseen, to stand apart from the noise of others… it had always been her way.
Perhaps, if one looked closely, the signs were there from long ago.
Six years earlier, when Gu Ze Yan's days were swallowed by meetings, contracts, and the endless hunger of ambition, he discovered how easy it was for her to vanish. He would miss her with a restlessness that left his chest aching, yet when at last he saw her again, her smile was faint, her voice calm, as if his absence had barely touched her.
To him, every day without her had felt unbearably long.
To her, it seemed only natural.
And that was when he began to realize—Lin Qing Yun had always been someone who knew how to be alone.
Six winters ago..
Two weeks blurred past in a haze of glass offices and conference rooms. End of year meant numbers, contracts, signatures—the kind of work that devoured daylight before he noticed.
But somewhere beneath the rhythm of meetings, another silence gnawed.
No bookstore. No bus stop. No bright "Sunny."
Lin Qing Yun had vanished from his days as completely as if she had been folded into the winter air. His WeChat messages—short, polite—sat unanswered for hours, sometimes a day. He told himself it was nothing. She had jobs, she was busy, she had a life that spun without him. But when his driverless car slid past Haiyun Road one night, headlights brushing the darkened window of the bookstore, the quiet glow inside made him feel absurdly lonely.
So this was what absence felt like.
---
Office Banter
Friday morning. Luminar Systems hummed with year-end frenzy. Screens glowed, assistants buzzed, and Chen Rui walked in with coffee balanced in one hand and mischief in his smile.
"Boss," he said, planting the cup on the desk, "you look like a man whose favorite shop took down the members only sign."
Ze Yan's pen stilled. "What?"
"No sightings of our bookstore girl in a week and suddenly you're scowling at balance sheets like they insulted your ancestors. Tell me I'm wrong."
Ze Yan's brows arched. "You are. My ancestors are perfectly innocent."
"Mm." Chen Rui leaned on the chair back, smug. "So, it's just coincidence your mood curve matches your WeChat 'last seen' curve?"
Ze Yan ignored him, flipping the report. His tone, however, betrayed the faintest edge. "Shouldn't you be running simulations instead of narrating my personal life?"
"I did. The simulation shows your probability of denial is 95%."
The pen snapped shut. "Out."
Chen Rui retreated, laughing. "Fine, fine. But if you're lonely, remember—Zhao Corporation invited you to that year-end banquet. Plenty of people there to distract you. Like sharks."
---
The Call
The phone on his desk lit:
Mother.
He answered quickly. "Ma."
The voice of Song Mei Ling, soft but urgent: "Ze Yan, your Pa wants you at the Zhao banquet this weekend. It's important. Come home, at least for one night."
Home. The word landed strangely, always had.
He rubbed his brow. "You know Zhao Rui doesn't like seeing me."
"Your Pa does," she said firmly. "And so do I. Just come. For me."
A pause stretched, long enough for him to hear her breath catch. She had never stopped shielding him from the old man's sharp tongue, never stopped asking him to endure it—for the sake of peace, for the sake of belonging.
"…Alright," he said at last. "I'll come."
---
The Zhao House
That Sunday, the Zhao residence glowed like a fortress—polished marble, iron gates, red lanterns already strung though the new year was still weeks away.
Inside, laughter echoed off high ceilings. Servants moved quietly with trays of fruit.
Zhao Xin Yue was the first to spot him. "Ge!" She rushed over in her pale sweater, cheeks bright. "You're finally here!"
Her joy was effortless, disarming. She tugged his sleeve, half-scolding. "You never visit. Do you know how hard it is to defend you when everyone says you've abandoned us?"
He smiled faintly, ruffling her hair. "Then don't defend me. Save your breath."
"Impossible," she said, mock-offended.
Before he could answer, two voices cut across the hall.
Zhao Wei Jun—the eldest, sharp suit, sharper eyes.
Zhao Han Sheng—the second, broad-shouldered, smirk lurking.
"Well, if it isn't Luminar's golden boy," Wei Jun drawled. "Decided to show his face after all."
Han Sheng's laugh followed. "Maybe he wants to recruit Father's investors. Perfect timing."
Their barbs slid easily into the air.
Ze Yan's expression didn't shift. "Good evening, brothers."
Wei Jun's smile was all teeth. "Brothers? Don't flatter yourself."
---
The Stepfather
Before it could sour further, Zhao Ming Liang appeared—tall, composed, the weight of Zhao Corporation in his bearing. He clapped a hand on Ze Yan's shoulder, steady and warm.
"Enough," Ming Liang said, voice steel under silk. "Ze Yan is my son, and he's here as family. Remember your manners."
The older two retreated with stiff smiles, but the air chilled a fraction.
Ze Yan bowed slightly. "Thank you, Pa."
The words were simple, but the weight behind them real. Whatever else the Zhao house contained, his stepfather's affection had never wavered.
---
The Patriarch
Later, as servants poured wine, the old man descended.
Zhao Rui—the patriarch—moved slowly but spoke with force. His eyes skimmed the room, skipping warmth, landing cold on Ze Yan.
"So," he said, voice carrying, "the outsider remembers where his roots are."
The hall quieted.
Ze Yan lowered his gaze in deference. "I came because Mother asked."
A ripple of murmurs spread. The old man's lip curled. "At least you remember who raised you. But don't mistake courtesy for belonging. Blood decides legacy. You will never be Zhao blood."
The words were knives. Xin Yue's fists clenched. Ming Liang's jaw tightened.
But Ze Yan only inclined his head, calm. "Then it is good I built Luminar under my own name. Zhao Corporation's legacy will never be diminished by me."
The silence that followed was sharp—then filled with whispers. Some admiring, some disapproving.
The old man snorted, turning away.
---
Alone Again
After the dinner, Ze Yan slipped out into the cold courtyard. Lanterns swayed in faint wind, their light fractured in the stone pond.
His phone buzzed. A name blinked: Lin Qing Yun.
One unread message. Short. Ordinary.
"Work late today. Don't wait."
His throat tightened unexpectedly. After weeks of silence, even that line felt like a thread in his hand.
He looked up at the Zhao house, laughter spilling from its windows, then back down at the small glow of her message.
Family, legacy, blood—none of it felt as solid as that single line of text.
He typed nothing. He only pocketed the phone, exhaling once, steady.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he'd see her again.