Chapter 34: After the Storm-Night City(The Lady with the Swaying Hairpin)

Outside, the night was shrouded in melancholy; tonight, the starlight was beautiful. After the storm, a gentle calm lingered. Beneath the elegant lamp, a soft yellow glow cast delicate shadows upon the fragile woman. He leaned against the crescent-shaped wooden window, watching her with her back turned to him. The private room was in disarray: overturned tea table, a guzheng lying askew, shattered porcelain cup, and the woman’s quiet, sorrowful weeping.

Ye Linglan stared blankly, tears spreading across her fingers, soaked with sadness. A cool breeze brushed by the window, making her shiver uncontrollably, yet a voice seemed to linger in her mind, like the clear chime of wind bells—ring... ring... ring... each note gentle as a flowing stream, a fresh breeze from spring and autumn. She smiled, a lonely curve at her lips; tears pooled in her eyes, but a bitter blockage rose in her throat, leaving her unable to cry, unable to speak.

—How I wish I could ask you, have you ever truly cared for me?

Suddenly, music from her phone began to play, repeating tirelessly the same line:

—How I wish I could ask you, have you ever truly cared for me?

Ye Linglan remained motionless, quietly listening. A song meant to be joyful now seemed steeped in helplessness and grief, drawing her deeper into sorrow.

Mo Zhicheng glanced toward the source of the sound, which emanated faintly from her backpack, almost as if protesting. He opened her bag—everything inside was neat and clean, exuding a subtle fragrance. A white envelope caught his eye; earlier, when he entered, he’d seen her leaning against the window, lost in thought, tears shimmering in her eyes. Curious, he glanced at the envelope, reading, "For Linglan’s Mother." Mo Zhicheng paused, then placed it back.

The music played again and again; after each pause, it resumed, the phone’s screen flickering with the contact name "ind." Mo Zhicheng picked it up, sat beside her, and placed the phone in her palm. "It’s your call." As he withdrew, he met her tear-stained eyes. She did not refuse, letting the music play on, never answering.

She listened, her lips trembling faintly. Mo Zhicheng remained at her side, his gaze lowered, releasing a soft sigh. When the ringtone finally fell silent, he lifted her into his arms. "I’ll take you away," he whispered. Ye Linglan did not resist; only exhaustion remained. Even the tightest cord will snap eventually. She closed her eyes, letting him carry her into the Bentley.

The driver started the engine. She had no idea where they were headed.

In the back seat, only the two of them. She leaned against the window, keeping her distance. She looked at him—he was impeccably dressed, while her own qipao had been torn, exposing pale skin, nothing left to cover her. Mo Zhicheng removed his coat, intending to drape it over her, his fingers gently touching the swollen left side of her face. She shrank toward the window.

His hand hovered in the air, then slowly withdrew.

Neither spoke. As the car drove onward, silence enveloped them. Tonight, the stars glittered, scattered across the sapphire sky, their faint lines forming a brilliant constellation—so clear and bright. She gazed upward, as if they were within reach, yet knew the distance was vast, divided by earth and sky, mountains and rivers.

He glanced sideways at her, her delicate profile blurred in shadow. He looked away and lit a cigarette, smoking quietly.