Chapter 42 The Earrings Are Beautiful

Mo Zhicheng gently brushed her earlobe; her piercing was clearly visible, like a tiny black mole resting there. She lowered her head, as if deliberately trying to conceal something.

He picked up one of the earrings and, by the light, carefully fastened it for her. The pomegranate-red earring, which resembled a tassel, hung elegantly against her neck.

He turned her face toward him, scrutinizing her, his gaze passing over the faint mist in her eyes. Reaching out, he smoothed her brows and eyes, then leaned in close, his breath warm against her jaw. He was so near, the subtle scent of musk from his body filled her chest—a comforting, beguiling fragrance that could lull one into a sense of safety.

Linglan covered her eyes helplessly, feeling him lift her earlobe to put on the other earring. Mo Zhicheng looked upon her with satisfaction; the earrings complemented her vintage attire perfectly. He whispered, pleased, “Returned to its rightful owner.”

His fingers hooked a lock of hair tucked behind her ear, letting it fall gently. It was undeniable—hair was a woman’s second face beyond her features: its luster, scent, and movement were an ultimate temptation to men, though she seemed utterly unaware.

At last, he drew back, his palm coming to rest lightly on her shoulder and back, giving a gentle pat in a gesture of dismissal. “Play a piece, and then you may go.” His tone was indifferent.

He was letting her go?

Ye Linglan nodded, putting distance between them. She knelt by the guzheng, just as she always did before playing, silently wiping its surface. “What would you like to hear, Mr. Mo?”

“Anything you wish.”

She hesitated. Of all choices in the world, “anything” was the hardest. Not knowing his preferences, she could only rely on her own intuition. She did not wish to play “Farewell” before him again—it was too entwined with memories of her youthful love.

“‘The Dream Chaser,’ then.”

Mo Zhicheng nodded. He watched as she reached out, her fingertips caressing the strings. Popularity is but a fleeting blaze, while the classics linger with enduring fragrance. To avoid oblivion, one must rely on a certain timeless charm to preserve one’s worth.

Luo Dayou’s lyrics and melody seemed to shimmer with brilliance, flawless in every corner, generous and heroic—enough to stand proudly above the rest.

The lyrics spoke thus:

The delicate blossom of youth reveals its hidden beauty.
The drifting catkins in the sky are fantasies of your smiling face.
Autumn comes, spring leaves, who in this world arranges fate?
Snow and ice remain silent, but your brilliance in the cold night cannot be concealed.

An old yet ever-popular song, and in her slender hands, it took on a unique blend of chivalry and tenderness—long and winding, deeply moving, touched by the vastness of human experience.

Mo Zhicheng listened silently, lifting a porcelain cup and draining it. The fragrance of tea lingered on his lips and teeth. He studied her, his gaze involuntarily drifting to the woman playing in the corner. He watched her nod faintly now and then, her eyes brimming with unspoken emotion. The moment their eyes met, she lowered her gaze in sorrow—as if playing the guzheng by the northern window, the night resonating with plaintive music.

—Play a piece, and then you may go!

When the song ended, the people scattered.

Ye Linglan withdrew, leaving Mo Zhicheng alone. He looked at the half-closed sliding doors. Before long, the doors opened again—Linglan had changed out of the cheongsam and, bending down, placed it before him. “Mr. Mo, this too returns to its rightful owner.”

Mo Zhicheng was silent for a moment, his deep eyes veiled. He spoke only, “You may go.”

Ye Linglan turned away. Glancing at the time, she saw Ye Shenghan still hadn’t replied. Hastily, she slung her backpack over her shoulders and hurried off toward Ye Shenghan’s residence.

By eight in the evening, the city was a river of cars and lights. In the night, that waiting silhouette could be seen, raising her head in hope, occasionally checking the time in anxiety, and hailing passing taxis with mounting urgency.