In the cold wind of the platform, Lan finally broke down. She buried her face against Di's chest, crying without restraint like a child who had lost her way. Passersby cast complicated glances—some curious, some strange—but she paid no attention. Her chest felt hollowed out, every breath sharp with pain.
She knew she wasn't just crying because of Jie's departure. The real reason was that this journey had suddenly arrived at the one destination she had never dared face—her biological parents. From that impulsive rush to the sea, to his sudden disappearance, everything seemed pushed before her by an unseen hand. She wanted to see them, yet feared the answer even more. Why had she been sent away? Who was the first to let go? Those questions, swallowed for years, circled on the tip of her tongue, tasting only more bitter the longer she held them back.
Lan's shoulders gradually stopped trembling. When she had calmed, Di slowly loosened his arms. They quietly picked up their luggage and walked side by side out of the station. The road was wordless, their footsteps so light it was as if neither wished to disturb the other's thoughts.
"What if… what if they don't want to see me?" she finally asked, her voice so soft and tight it sounded like it was strangled by a thin thread.
"They will." Di halted, met her eyes, and spoke with steady certainty—without the slightest hesitation.
That firmness warmed her chest, yet left her even more unsettled. She lowered her head, searching the address on her phone. The glow of the screen lit her fingertips, exposing a thin sheen of cold sweat.
By the time they arrived, it was already past seven in the evening.
On the hillside stood a two-story Western-style house, quiet and dignified. At its gate hung a bronze plaque engraved with the words "Jiang Residence." The lights traced the lines of the eaves and balcony, clear against the night. It wasn't ostentatious, but so proper and refined that one couldn't look away.
Lan stood before the house, her heart in disarray. A home like this, a life like this—everything seemed fine. Then why had they still abandoned her? She mocked herself inwardly: what would knowing the answer change? And if they met—then what? She had only wanted a glimpse, just enough to prove they existed, enough to prove she hadn't been dreaming. Since they lived here, surely they couldn't be so cruel… She tried to convince herself of that, yet her feet refused to move forward.
Her conflict was like two ropes, one pulling her ahead, the other yanking her back. She imagined every possible scene when the door opened: someone crying out her name in surprise; a confused face asking, "Who are you?"; or perhaps just a faintly polite indifference. Again and again, she rehearsed how to speak: "I'm Lan" felt too light, but "I'm your daughter" far too heavy. Suddenly she grew afraid of her own voice—afraid that if it trembled, it would betray all her fragile composure.
"Maybe… we should just forget it." Her words were barely audible, spoken more to the night than to him.
Di stood beside her without urging, without retreating. He only shifted the luggage to his other hand, freeing one arm to rest quietly behind her back. It was like an unseen wall—steady, unmoving—keeping her from falling backward.
Her palm dampened around her phone. The porch light stretched their shadows long across the ground. She watched the two silhouettes overlap, then slowly separate, and suddenly understood—she had always been waiting for someone to press that small button for her, the one that would ring out with a crisp chime.
"I'm here," Di said softly.
He offered no advice, asked for no choice. Instead, before she could decide, he made it for her—lifting his hand and pressing the doorbell.
The chime rang out, clear as a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward across her heart. Instinctively, Lan gripped the edge of his sleeve, her fingers tightening and loosening with each breath. She felt as though she were walking a thin rope, below her all the past and future; she didn't know if she could make it across, but she knew in this moment someone stood beside her, holding her steady.
Soon, a woman's voice came through the intercom—polite with practiced manners, yet carrying the calm softness of the evening.
"Hello… may I ask who you're looking for?"