Chapter Thirty-Seven: Embarrassment

The second day of the holiday.

Ye Mian visited Aunt Zhang’s house once more.

To thank Aunt Zhang for all the jujubes she’d given her over the years, Ye Mian brought a bag of ginger candies—gifts from Ye Haisheng’s patient, perfect for eating in the cold.

Aunt Zhang was delighted, holding Ye Mian’s small hand as they sat together on the floor cushions. She spoke at length about her own childhood.

She reminisced about hiding beneath the jujube tree playing hide-and-seek, about Ye Mian changing her little son’s wet pants, and about how she loved to chase biting dogs away with wooden sticks.

Ye Mian found herself laughing, overwhelmed by the warmth of childhood memories.

But none of these recollections included Jiang Chen.

Ye Mian pressed her lips together, unable to resist asking the real purpose of her visit, “Auntie, do you remember Jiang Chen as a child?”

“Jiang Chen…” Aunt Zhang paused, her gaze growing complex. She did not shy away from the topic, but her voice dropped low, as though recalling a painful past.

“How could I forget? We were neighbors. That child grew up before our eyes.”

“His mother was forced into suicide by his father. I’ve heard people say Jiang Chen saw his mother’s body.”

“After that, his father became increasingly unstable. They were wealthy once, but he gambled it all away. When he lost, he took out his anger on his child, beating him so severely that Jiang Chen couldn’t sleep at night, his body covered in wounds.”

“No one wanted to play with him. Everyone thought he was a monster, his body battered and bruised—of course he seemed monstrous.”

“We tried to intervene a few times, but outsiders couldn’t do much. Dong Yulan wasn’t much better; she’d starve him, make him eat cigarette butts and fruit peels, send him to rummage through trash bins.”

“If it was so cruel on the surface, who knows what went on behind closed doors—such sin.”

Ye Mian couldn’t remember how she left Aunt Zhang’s house.

Aunt Zhang’s words had woven a vivid, bloody image, laying the harshest cruelty before her eyes, making her heart race with terror.

Ye Mian closed her eyes, a single clear tear tracing down her cheek. She heard the crack within herself, as if her soul had split. In Jiang City’s November, she felt colder than the snow-covered northern nights.

Time seemed to rewind without warning, and she could not help but feel sorrow for Jiang Chen.

His past was so much worse than she had ever imagined.

No wonder he never spoke of his childhood.

This old city had seen much of Jiang Chen’s misery.

Eating cigarette butts, a body with no uninjured patch, too afraid to sleep.

The mere thought of such suffering was suffocating.

No one knew how young Jiang Chen had survived those days.

Ye Mian had always assumed Jiang Chen was born mature and reserved.

Now she understood.

Perhaps after losing his mother, the storm and blood of the world gave him no respite, grinding him into the dust, tormenting him over and over, his wounds tearing and healing, forcing the small boy to wrap himself in his own flesh, enduring insults and scorn, struggling to cling to life.

In this vast world, there truly was no one who loved him.

Realizing this, how could anyone remain innocent and pure?

In the autumn winds of November, the sky was so pale not a single cloud could be seen. Ye Mian couldn’t hold back any longer. Her steps faltered, and she collapsed before her own door.

She wore thick autumn clothes, so there was no pain.

But she felt agony nonetheless, crouching on the ground, covering her face and sobbing softly.

Passersby came and went, casting curious glances at the strange little girl.

Beneath the locust tree, a weary young man approached.

He’d pulled another all-nighter, exhaustion evident in his eyes. There was a fresh wound on his back, slashed by some mischievous child; his lips were pale and cracked.

As the fabric of his clothes rubbed against the injury, he did not slow, as if unaware of the pain.

He could not smell the autumn wind, nor see the colors of fallen leaves. Only the cold gusts brushing his spine managed to disperse his fatigue.

It was only when his gaze fell upon the girl before him that the world seemed to regain its color.

He crossed the street, knelt beside her, and picked up the cloth bag she had dropped.

In the whistling wind, his voice carried a faint chill, like the crispness of autumn, “Ye Mian, are you hurt? Get up, let me take a look.”

Ye Mian didn’t lift her head. Just by the sound of his voice, she knew who it was.

She wondered—

Had anyone ever asked young Jiang Chen such a question?

Her shoulders trembled. Unable to hold back, she cried even harder.

The little girl buried her face in her arms, curling herself into a ball, her sobs harsh and pitifully tender.

Jiang Chen frowned, raising his hand to pat her shoulder.

Seeing the messy colors of marker stains on his palm, he lowered it again, gently asking, “Don’t cry. Where did you fall? I’ll buy you some medicine.”

Ye Mian didn’t want him to buy medicine; she wasn’t truly injured. She could only reach out and grasp the hem of his coat, her voice muffled, “No, don’t go.”

Jiang Chen studied her for a moment, eyes lowered. “Ye Mian, crying won’t help if you’re hurt. You need medicine.”

Ye Mian knew these were the survival rules of his world. She shook her head cautiously, “I’m not hurt.”

“Hmm?” The boy lifted his handsome brows. “Then why are you crying?”

“…”

Ye Mian couldn’t say.

She could never bring herself to mention such things in front of Jiang Chen.

She wished with all her heart that he would forget everything.

She held tightly to Jiang Chen’s coat, choking out, “I’m just crying.”

Jiang Chen narrowed his eyes, resigned, “The ground’s cold. Sit up.”

Ye Mian wanted to lift her head, but the moment her face touched the air, she hurriedly ducked back down.

She buried her head deeper, her scalp tingling.

Just now, as she brushed against the wind, she realized she’d cried so long her nose was running, tears streaming down her face.

If nothing else, she must look sticky and miserable.

Oh, how embarrassing.

But she was used to it.

Suppressing the urge to cry again, she tugged Jiang Chen’s coat and asked pitifully, “Jiang Chen, do you have any tissues? My nose… my nose is running.”

No sooner had she spoken than a neatly folded tissue was placed in her hand, as if he’d prepared it in advance.

She paused, took the tissue, turned aside, quickly unfolded it, wrapped it around her mouth and nose, carefully wiped herself clean, and only then looked up.

Her neck was sore and swollen.

Yet tears still lingered in her eyes.

She met Jiang Chen’s gaze.

His eyes were as deep as the night.

Jiang Chen extended his long, pale fingers and helped her up from the ground. Then he heard her choke out, “Jiang Chen, are you very tired?”

The wind along the street was fierce. Jiang Chen paused.

He looked at the girl, her face flushed from crying, “What?”

Ye Mian shook her head, “Nothing.”