The shutter clicked—sharp, crisp, with that faintly cheap, plasticky mechanical snap—as if slapping a hurried stamp onto this fleeting, messy little moment of warmth.
Meng Minxin was kneeling on the living-room floor. On her left sat her just-turned-six-year-old son, Lin Guang, wearing the navy-striped T-shirt she'd bought him last week. His small face was tense as he tried very hard to imitate a "manly" expression, yet his gaze kept sneaking toward the strawberry cake on the coffee table. On her right was her four-year-old daughter, Lin Xin, in a pink puffed dress, her hair tied—somewhat lopsidedly—into two tiny pigtails from this morning's hurried scramble. She was grinning wide, showing the little chip on her baby tooth, her hand clutching tightly onto one floppy ear of her stuffed bunny.
Behind Meng Minxin, her husband, Lin Zhengyin, crouched slightly, one arm loosely draped over her shoulders. His breath brushed her ear—warm, carrying the faint scent of soap from just getting off work, and a hint of exhaustion easily overlooked. His other hand held an old point-and-shoot camera. He grinned.
"Look here—smile!"
Sunlight streamed in from the west-facing window, dust motes drifting lazily through the golden beam. The air was sweet with cake icing, mingled with the crisp sunlit scent clinging to Lin Zhengyin's shirt. Lin Guang finally couldn't hold it anymore and licked his lips. Lin Xin burst into giggles, and her stuffed bunny brushed against Meng Minxin's cheek, tickling her.
Everything collapsed in the instant after that "click."
Without warning—gone.
Not darkness. Something far more absolute.
A brutal force severed every sensory thread—sight, sound, smell, touch—cut clean.
Her body lost weight, plummeting into a bottomless, lightless void.
Time stretched and shattered. Blurred colors, broken noises with no meanings shredded across her consciousness.
She tried to call Zhengyin's name, to grab her children's hands—but her throat, her limbs no longer belonged to her.
Only a cold, relentless freefalling terror clenched around her heart.
She didn't know how long it lasted—an instant, or ten thousand years.
A point of light, thin and jagged, pierced the chaos.
Then—
Meng Minxin's eyes flew open.
A violent dizziness surged; she nearly vomited.
She was standing—awkwardly, as if frozen mid-movement. Her hands were empty. No Lin Guang, no Lin Xin, no Zhengyin's arm around her.
A room lay before her.
Her home—and yet utterly not.
The living room's structure was faintly recognizable, but everything had changed.
The sofa was now a cold, slate-gray piece with hard modern lines, two geometric cushions tossed casually on it—not the cozy floral ones she had chosen. The walls had been repainted a cool ivory. The wall that used to hold kindergarten doodles and family photos was now hung with several abstract paintings in thin metal frames. The coffee table was a heavy slab of black glass; atop it, no strawberry cake—only an ultrathin laptop with a dark screen, and a white ceramic mug with a dried ring of coffee on the rim.
The air smelled unfamiliar: polished wood wax, a cool masculine cologne, and…
The faint stale loneliness of a room long lived-in but rarely filled with people.
No cream, no soap, no lingering warmth of playing children.
Her gaze drifted—stiff, mechanical—to the digital wall calendar.
The numbers jumped out, silent, feral.
The year.
She stared at the four digits. Her mind refused to register. Her breath stopped; her blood seemed to surge backward and freeze in her veins. She staggered, gripping the cold wall. The sensation was terrifyingly real.
Fifteen years.
Impossible.
She had only… only taken a photo.
A single family photo.
"Mom? Where's my light-gray jogging pants? I'm wearing them for morning run tomorrow!"
A bright young male voice—impatient, hovering between adolescence and adulthood—came from the hallway, accompanied by dragging footsteps.
Meng Minxin turned as if burned.
A tall teenager emerged from what used to be the children's room—now clearly a bedroom. He wore a loose black T-shirt and knee-length athletic shorts. His hair was cut short, exposing the shape of his skull. His brows and eyes… yes, she could still see the shadow of little Lin Guang in them, but now the features were fully grown. His nose was straight, jawline defined. The timid dependence of childhood was gone—replaced by aloofness, the restless indifference of youth. He was tall—almost as tall as the Zhengyin she remembered.
He walked into the living room without looking toward the dim corner where she stood. He went straight to the open kitchen, opened the fridge, pulled out a can of cold cola. "Pff—" He popped it open and took a long gulp, Adam's apple moving sharply.
Then he noticed her.
His gaze swept over her.
And in that split second, her heart hammered wildly. She opened her mouth—wanted to call him "Guang-guang." The nickname she used when he was tiny. But her voice froze, escaping only as a faint breath.
His eyes lingered on her face for two seconds.
Two seconds in which she saw nothing familiar.
Only polite confusion, a flicker of annoyance at being disturbed.
But no surprise, no recognition—not even the faintest warmth she ached for.
"Who are you looking for?" he asked, voice flat, polite in only the most superficial sense.
"I…" Her voice scraped like sandpaper. "Is this… Lin Zhengyin's home?"
He raised a brow. That tiny expression made him look even more like his father.
"It is. And you are? Did you make an appointment? Dad didn't say he was seeing anyone today."
His gaze slid down her outdated, soft cotton dress—so out of place in this sharp, modern room. His brows tightened almost imperceptibly.
Just then, another door opened.
A girl stepped out—eighteen, maybe nineteen. She wore a light-blue tailored blouse and beige trousers. Long, smooth hair framed a quietly beautiful face. Her eyes—lovely in shape but unnervingly still—were unmistakably like Meng Minxin's.
Lin Xin. Her daughter.
But the expression on the girl's face was… wrong.
Too calm. Too guarded.
As though assessing whether the stranger in her home posed a threat.
The world spun again.
Meng Minxin clutched the wall, fingers white and shaking.
These two tall, unfamiliar young people—
Were the same children she'd held just "yesterday"—
one licking frosting, the other giggling into a stuffed bunny?
The front lock clicked.
The door opened.
A man walked in.
Lin Zhengyin.
Her breath stopped altogether.
He had aged. That was the first, sharpest shock.
Grey streaked through his hair—not just a few threads, but entire patches. Lines etched deep into his forehead and around his eyes. His shoulders were still broad, but slightly slumped. His light-gray shirt was neatly pressed, sleeves rolled to the elbow, but his movements carried a quiet exhaustion. A black briefcase hung from his hand, heavy.
He bent to change shoes—slowly.
Then straightened and looked up.
His gaze swept the room, habitual, skimming over the children—
and then it caught the figure in the shadowed corner.
And froze.
The fatigue, the calm, the dullness of routine—
crumbled from his face like sand collapsing.
His pupils contracted violently.
The briefcase slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.
He stood utterly still, hollowed out, as if his soul had been ripped free.
His eyes—the familiar warm ones she had loved so dearly—
widened, brimming with shock, disbelief, fear, agony,
and a raw, overwhelming longing that had clearly lived inside him for far too long.
His lips moved silently.
He stared at her as if she were a fragile hallucination that might vanish if he blinked.
Silence swallowed the room—
broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator.
The children noticed.
Lin Guang's hand froze mid-air, the cola can tilting.
Lin Xin's brows twitched, a small ripple breaking her mask of calm.
Minxin watched the chaos in Zhengyin's eyes—
the grey in his hair, the trembling in his fingers—
and a deep, twisting ache tore through her chest.
For her, it had been an instant.
For him—fifteen years.
Fifteen years of waiting, eroding, enduring.
Zhengyin at last seemed to regain control of his limbs.
He took one step—stumbled—stopped, terrified of startling her.
His throat bobbed painfully as he forced out, hoarse as crushed gravel:
"…Minxin?"
The word struck the quiet like thunder.
The cola can slipped in Lin Guang's hand, spilling cold liquid onto his skin. He didn't notice.
Lin Xin's breath hitched.
Tears burst from Meng Minxin's eyes. She nodded—hard—unable to speak.
Zhengyin stepped forward.
Again.
Again.
He never looked away.
His hand trembled wildly as he reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek.
Warm. Real.
Not a dream.
His eyes shone red; he held back tears with visible effort.
He drew a long, shaking breath—as if inhaling her back into his world.
Then—gently, painfully gently—he pulled her into his arms.
The embrace was familiar… and yet heavier, lined with years.
He held her too tightly, as though terrified she'd vanish again.
His heart pounded erratically beneath her ear.
She wrapped her arms around him. Through the thin fabric, she could feel the sharpness of his spine.
He had grown thinner.
The realization cut her anew.
Behind them, she did not see Lin Guang's expression hardening like poured steel, the crushed cola can warping in his grip. Nor Lin Xin turning to the window, her profile tight, lips pressed white.
After a long while, Zhengyin reluctantly loosened his hold, though one hand still clung to hers.
He wiped her tears with his thumb—tender, reverent.
"You…" His voice cracked. "Where did you go? These fifteen years… what happened to you?"
"I don't know… I don't know…"
Her words tumbled, broken.
"I was just… taking a photo… the shutter clicked… and then…"
Her chest tightened painfully.
"I just… ended up here…"
Pain darkened his eyes.
He didn't press her.
He simply pulled her close again, whispering over and over—
"You're home. You're home. That's all that matters now…"
"Dad."
A cold voice sliced through the fragile warmth.
Zhengyin stiffened.
Meng Minxin lifted her head.
Lin Guang stood before them, crushed cola can in hand, his face empty of emotion, eyes razor-sharp.
"And she is?" he asked, voice calm—frighteningly calm.
Reality crashed back.
Zhengyin's grip tightened painfully around Minxin's hand.
He looked at his children, inhaling deeply, trying—and failing—to steady his voice.
"Guang, Xin…" His gaze lingered on them with something close to pleading.
"This is your mother. Meng Minxin. She… she's back."
"Mother?"
Lin Guang repeated the word like it tasted wrong.
A cold twist of mockery tugged at his lips.
"Oh. The one who vanished without a word fifteen years ago? Not even a note?"
Every word struck her like an icy nail.
Her breath stuttered.
"Lin Guang!" Zhengyin snapped, anger flaring. "Watch your tone!"
"My tone?"
The boy met his father's eyes, unflinching, wounded rage sharpening every syllable.
"Dad, you waited fifteen years for her. You wouldn't let us move her things. Fine. That was your choice.
But—"
He turned to Meng Minxin, hatred now fully unveiled.
"—that doesn't mean we owe anything to someone who abandoned her family, disappeared for fifteen years, and now shows up acting like nothing happened."
"Enough!"
Zhengyin's face flushed with anger.
"Am I wrong?"
Lin Guang's voice broke into a shout—young, raw, furious.
"I was six! Xin was four! We cried for her! We asked you a thousand times where Mom went!
You said she might be lost, that she'd come home!
One year.
Two.
Five.
Ten!
Did she come back?!"
His voice grew ragged.
"And now, after fifteen years, she suddenly appears, claiming she doesn't know anything? And we're supposed to smile and call her 'Mom'?
Why?!"
Silence crashed down.
Lin Xin still said nothing.
She only watched—the pale, trembling Minxin, her furious brother, her devastated father.
Her eyes were deep, still, like a sealed well—holding only a faint, cold glimmer of something wounded and wary.
Each of Guang's accusations lashed Meng Minxin's heart raw.
She wanted to explain.
It wasn't abandonment.
She hadn't left them.
But fifteen years—
that impossible truth—
made every explanation sound like a cheap lie.
She lifted her eyes and saw only her son's hatred, her daughter's distance.
Her chest hollowed out entirely, as if her heart had been scooped away.
Zhengyin turned to her—eyes bloodshot, expression pained yet unwavering.
He cupped her face, wiping her tears with trembling gentleness.
Then he leaned close, murmuring in a voice only she could hear—
low, rough, breaking:
"Don't be afraid, Minxin. You're back.
The rest…
leave to me.
We'll take it slowly.
Together."
His breath brushed her ear—warm, familiar, yet roughened by time.
For a moment, it pulled her back from the edge of drowning.
But when she looked past him—
saw Guang's frozen anger,
Xin's silent, distant eyes—
that thin thread of comfort stretched tight, cutting into her like wire.