Time, silent and patient, had woven five winters and five springs since that rainy night.
Su Yue had grown like flowers that sprout in the cracks of concrete — small, seemingly fragile at first glance, but with roots that cling to the earth as if refusing to be forgotten.
Her world, until then, fit in her mother's hands: hands that worked without rest, that made soup with little salt and much silence, that mended worn clothes so they would last another year.
That morning, however, something in the air felt different. The smell of burnt coffee came from the kitchen, but the sound of male footsteps in the bedroom made Su Yue stop halfway down the hallway.
She saw her father — or the man who had once been called that — open the door in a rush, holding a worn suitcase. He didn't look at her. He didn't bend down to touch her. He simply walked past.
Her mother came right after, still wearing her apron, eyes red and breathing fast.
— You don't have to… — she began, but the sentence died as the door slammed shut.
At five years old, Su Yue did not understand all the words. But she understood the sound. She understood the emptiness that remained.
She ran to her mother, wrapping her arms around her waist. She felt the tremor in her body, the smell of detergent on her hands.
In the days that followed, the neighbors' hushed voices cut through the silence. At the market, her mother received glances that carried more judgment than pity. Humiliation came in the form of whispers and muffled laughter.
A few weeks later, they moved to a small house at the edge of a neighborhood the city had long forgotten. The roof leaked on rainy days, and the cement floor made their feet cold in winter. But there, between peeling walls, her mother arranged a corner for Su Yue's bed, a shelf for her two books, and a vase with a single flower.
Su Yue learned early that love is sometimes silent and without luxury — but still love.
A few months after the move, on a morning with an overcast sky, Su Yue went with her mother to the market.The new house was far, but money was tight — and the market in their old neighborhood had lower prices. So they walked back through familiar streets, with cautious steps, like those who fear being seen.
Holding tightly to the hem of her mother's dress, Su Yue walked in silence. The stone pavement was still damp from the previous night's rain, and the smell of fresh fish mingled with the sweet scent of stacked oranges.
While they chose some vegetables, three women approached. They walked together like a single body, with slow yet deliberate steps. The one in front wore a vibrant red dress, and the smile on her lips never reached her eyes.
— Well, if it isn't the living widow… — she said loudly, for all around to hear.
— Here to spend what little you have left?
The others laughed, the sound like cold metal striking stone.
Su Yue's mother didn't answer. She carefully picked potatoes, but the girl noticed her fingers trembling slightly.
— I heard he left to be with the girl from Magnolia Street… — said the thinner one, with false innocence.
— At least there, he won't go hungry.
The third woman sighed, as if in pity.— And he left this little one behind… Poor thing, she'll grow up just like her mother.
Su Yue felt her face burn. She didn't understand all the meanings, but she knew those words were like stones thrown at something precious.— That's not true! — she shouted, her voice thin and trembling.
The three women exchanged glances heavy with irony. One of them bent down to look her in the eye.— Oh, dear… one day you'll understand.
Her mother stood up, placing herself between them and her daughter. Her voice was calm, yet firm like old wood.— Let's go, Yue.
On the way back, the weight of the grocery bag seemed heavier than the distance to their new home.
Once inside, her mother knelt before her, held her face, and whispered, almost breaking:— Don't hold on to the bad things they say. Keep only what helps you stand tall.
Su Yue did not fully understand. But that night, lying in her narrow bed, she promised herself that one day she would give her mother a reason to never lower her eyes before anyone again.
In the same city, in a neighborhood far from where Su Yue fell asleep with silent promises, another silence spread — colder, more final.
The courtyard was covered with black and white umbrellas. The fine rain fell as if the sky itself took part in the mourning. In the center, beneath an improvised canopy, the portrait of Zhou Yichen's mother smiled in a black frame, surrounded by white lilies and chrysanthemums.
He stood beside his father, wearing a dark coat a size too big, holding in his hands the blue scarf his mother had placed with him the day he was born. The fabric was now damp, heavy, as if it wished to absorb the tears he did not yet know how to shed.
The deep sound of a gong echoed, followed by the slow crackle of incense sticks burning on the altar. Relatives and neighbors bowed before the table, where fruit, tea, and rice had been laid as offerings.
Yichen's father performed three formal bows. He imitated them with uncertain movements, feeling the invisible weight of it all without fully understanding.
When the body — wrapped in white silk and covered by a cloth embroidered in gold — was taken away, Yichen took a step forward, as if to follow. His father placed a firm, restrained hand on his shoulder. There was no embrace. No explanation. Only a gesture for him to stay.
Later, in the car ride home, Yichen rested his forehead against the window, watching the streets blur with rain.As they turned down a narrow corner, his eyes caught an image that would stay with him for no apparent reason: a woman standing at the edge of the sidewalk, carrying a heavy bag; beside her, a little girl in a simple dress, her face wet with tears, looking directly at the passing car.
Their eyes met for a brief instant — so quick that perhaps neither realized what it carried.
The car moved on.But somewhere unseen, the thread that connected those two childhoods stretched for the first time.