Chapter 2

Pei Tiancheng had been provoked by her repeated questioning, his brows knitting in displeasure. “Songxi, do you have that much free time? Such a trivial matter, and you refuse to let it go?”

Pei Songxi met his gaze calmly, not yielding an inch, her eyes full of unspoken challenge.

Pei Tiancheng waved a hand impatiently, unwilling to say more, and walked out with his hands behind his back.

Pei Songxi let out a soft breath and turned to look at Yu Mian.

The little girl stood a short distance away, her slender neck bowed, like a graceful white dove — pale, fragile, with no branch to perch on.

She walked over and crouched down in front of her, cool eyes slowly meeting hers. “Do you remember where your home is?”

Yu Mian hadn’t expected her to come so close and nervously took a step back — but perhaps because she no longer had to crane her neck to look up at her, she felt less afraid. She answered very slowly, “I don’t remember.”

Pei Songxi gazed at her for a moment, then gently shook her head, rose to her feet, said nothing more, and left.

Yu Mian stared blankly at her retreating figure.

She probably doesn’t like her… but somehow she could sense that she wasn’t a bad person.

Auntie Zhang came over and patted her hair. “Come along, Miss Yu. Your room is on the third floor.”

Yu Mian nodded and followed her upstairs, schoolbag swaying, her steps a little clumsy — but she didn’t ask any adult to take her hand.

Zhou Ruyun, in poor health, lived on the fourth floor. Pei Tiancheng and Pei Linmao’s family lived on the second. Pei Songxi, who disliked noise, lived alone on the third floor — the only floor with a vacant room now, so Yu Mian’s room was arranged there.

Auntie Zhang reminded her gently, “The Eldest Miss likes quiet. Be good while you’re up here, and don’t make noise, all right?”

Yu Mian looked up at her, her voice clear and childish. “Mianmian knows.”

The new room was large and empty. She stood at the doorway, a little frightened, with no one to tell; she could only gather her courage and step inside.

With every step, she had to tell herself: Mianmian is not a coward.

Auntie Zhang could see the child’s timidity and sighed inwardly, but she had too much to do to look after her. “Play in your room. I have work to do. The Eldest Miss doesn’t like servants going up to the third floor. Can you bathe and get to bed by yourself?”

Yu Mian nodded quietly.

The truth was, she didn’t know whether she could bathe herself.

But… but this wasn’t her home, and none of her family was here, and they all seemed not to like her very much.

Seeing how obedient she was, Auntie Zhang felt a pang of tenderness. She patted her hair, gave her a few more instructions, and left.

Yu Mian climbed onto the bed, smoothed down her tousled hair, and emptied the contents of her schoolbag: two brand-new fairy-tale books, a blue pencil case, a Phone Watch, a water cup, and a box of orange-flavored fruit candies.

The police officer had said this schoolbag was found at the accident scene — it must be hers.

Yu Mian sat cross-legged, her little feet kicking against the quilt, and opened a fairy-tale book. It was very new; only the flyleaf bore a line of writing: “To my precious daughter, happy birthday!”

It was an adult’s handwriting, elegant and refined.

Was it Papa’s, or Mama’s?

But she couldn’t remember what they looked like anymore… Her only impression of them was a rough, calloused hand holding hers as they walked for a long, long time.

She put the book back in her schoolbag and peeled an orange candy; a fresh, sweet flavor blossomed in her mouth.

She turned off the light, burrowed under the little quilt, and quickly fell asleep.

…

Yu Mian stayed on at the Pei household.

She was a tiny little thing who rarely spoke, ate only a little at the table, and made hardly any impression at all.

And yet Pei Songxi always noticed her.

Because she always sat beside her — perhaps because the chair Auntie Zhang had added that first time was next to hers, or… or perhaps it was more like some instinct drawing her closer to Pei Songxi than to anyone else.

Zhou Ruyun had met the child too.

Gentle and kind by nature, she liked Yu Mian, but with her health so poor year-round, she feared passing her sickness to the child and dared not get too close. Unable to talk her son around, she could only admonish Pei Tiancheng: “If you’re going to bring a child home to raise, you must take more responsibility.”

Pei Tiancheng, leafing through a financial magazine, brushed her off absently. “Auntie Zhang is looking after her.”

The subject was dropped.

In truth, Auntie Zhang was an old hand of the Pei household, busy upstairs and downstairs, even busier than the butler, and had little time to spare for Yu Mian.

Ding Mei said with a smile, “Grandma, wasn’t Zhiyuan also raised free-range? Don’t worry so much.”

After all these days, she still suspected the little girl was her husband’s illegitimate daughter. She pitied her, but as long as the elders showed this child any concern, her own attitude toward her would never warm.

The old lady sighed deeply, waved a hand, and went upstairs.

At the stairwell, Yu Mian listened to their conversation, then heard a heavy set of footsteps approaching, and immediately ran back to her room, closing the door softly behind her.

She leaned against it and quietly lowered her eyes.

The room was bare except for one large bed.

A light breeze stirred; the curtains swayed, shadows flickering.

Where was she supposed to go?

Walk out of here, find a police officer, say she was lost — would that work?

Yu Mian sat on the edge of the bed and thought about it seriously for a long time, but no answer came.

The August sky was fickle. Suddenly thunder cracked outside the window, a bolt so loud it made her jump. She scrambled to the window — storm clouds rolled across the sky, dark and heavy. A deep, instinctive fear washed over her, and she trembled.

The empty room seemed to darken with the sky, as if monsters lurked in every corner.

The thunder boomed on and on. She was terrified, and she couldn’t bear to stay alone in the room.

Without even stopping to put on her shoes, she stumbled out. There were still voices downstairs in the living room, but she didn’t want to go down.

Only one hanging lamp was lit in the third-floor corridor, its light dim. At the far end, a window stood open; through it she could faintly see silver lightning split the distant sky. She clapped her hands over her ears, and seconds later another crash rolled through.

The child rose on tiptoe and knocked on the door.

Pei Songxi was reading in her room when, amid the thunder, she seemed to hear knocking.

She set down her book, weighted the pages with a paperweight, and went to open the door — straight into a pair of clean, limpid eyes, fixed unblinkingly on her.

It was that child.

Head tilted up, no shoes on, shifting from foot to foot in bewilderment, her trousers apparently a little too long and dragging on the floor, her eyes full of panicked, unsteady fear.

Pei Songxi studied her for a moment, then said evenly, “Come in.”

Yu Mian took a few seconds to process it, and by the time she thought to say thank you, the woman had already turned and gone back inside.

She tiptoed in after her and, stretching up, pulled the door shut.

Pei Songxi sat by the window reading.

Only a small desk lamp was lit, its light plain and pale. She was bathed in a soft halo, seeming even colder than usual, the kind of person one dared not approach.

She had let her in, yet said not a word.

Yu Mian was a little afraid of her — and yet in this whole household, she instinctively trusted only her.

Even if she seemed to care about nothing, even if she had demanded she be sent away.

She stood at the doorway, not daring to move — not daring to walk in, to sit down, or to speak.

Even her breathing was careful.

Pei Songxi finished a chapter before noticing the child was still barefoot by the door.

She rose, took a cashmere blanket, and beckoned. “Come here.”

Yu Mian tilted her head up to look at her, tense and awkward.

She handed her the little blanket and pointed at the slippers by the bed, sparing with her words as ever. “Sit.”

Yu Mian’s gaze traveled up along those pale, slender fingers to the string of Red Sandalwood Prayer Beads on her wrist.

Obediently she took the warm, soft little blanket, hugged it to her chest, and sat on the edge of the bed.

Only a tiny corner of it.

Pei Songxi had nothing more to say. She sat back down at the desk, opened her laptop, and put on her headphones as a subordinate reported to her.

Her expression stayed faint and flat the whole time, as if very little could stir her emotions. She posed the occasional question, and the subordinate’s carefully prepared proposals kept faltering under her queries. In one of those awkward silences, Pei Songxi turned her head and saw the child, bored out of her mind, sneaking glances at her.

She beckoned to her.

Yu Mian hopped off the bed, blanket still hugged to her chest, shuffling over in the comically oversized slippers, her eyes big and bright, watching her quietly.

Pei Songxi handed her a fresh, glossy orange.

Her room held only books and records — there was truly nothing in it that could comfort a child.

Yu Mian hugged the sweet-smelling fruit to her chest and beamed at her, a smile clean and soft.

Pei Songxi looked away indifferently and returned to the report.

Half an hour passed. Her patience was never her strong suit, and her voice was cool. “That’s it for today. Next Monday. The deadline.”

The call ended.

The quiet little girl still sat where she had been, lashes lowered, head bent over the fruit in her arms, her small fingertip poking at the peel again and again, as if playing some nameless game.

Pei Songxi found herself watching her for a few seconds — watching her lift the glossy, sweet-smelling orange to her lips and press a kiss to it.

She looked away and lowered her lashes.

Outside, the thunder had stopped; rain pattered softly against the banana leaves, sound after sound drifting in.

Yu Mian, hearing no more of her voice for a long while, looked up and out the window — the rain was gradually stopping.

She had no reason to stay any longer.

She tried to fold the little blanket in her arms, but her movements were clumsy; in the end she could only set it by the bed and say in a tiny voice, “I’ll go back now.”

Pei Songxi looked up, met her eyes, and gave a faint nod.

The little girl was a bit scared of her. She lowered her head, took off the slippers and set them back in place, then padded out barefoot — the orange still hugged to her chest.

Held tight. She didn’t let go.