Chapter Eight: After the Rain
第八章 旧识未识
It was June in the port city, and the plum rains had just come to an end.
That afternoon, as sunlight finally broke through the clouds, Lin Mian stepped out of her small apartment and was surprised to find an unremarkable brown paper box in her mailbox.
The box had no name or return address. A blob of old-fashioned red wax sealed the lid, pressed with a faint, blurred pattern that looked like an antique family crest.
Frowning, Lin Mian opened the package. Inside lay a string of old-fashioned red agate beads—each smooth and slightly translucent, emitting the faint sandalwood fragrance peculiar to aged objects.
Her mother, Lin Zhitang, had gone into exile years ago over political issues, and her identity had long since been wiped away. Since childhood, Lin Mian had lived under an assumed name with her mother. Though gifted with languages, she'd always been confined to behind-the-scenes translation work. Here, in this country, she had been secretly employed under the guise of a technical consultant, translating contract documents for a handful of ports and trading companies.
She knew what outsiders labeled her as, but no one knew where she truly came from—about the translation agency named Statera, the overseas contracts she handled for an anonymous foundation, or those secret dealings masked as "cultural exchange" projects. She hadn't revealed any of it during the interrogation, and she wasn't going to. At least not now.
She hadn't entered through official channels. During one handoff mission, suspicion of illegal document trafficking had led border control to intercept her and haul her away on the spot. In the initial hearing, she refused to divulge her employer's background or the network of contacts behind her, so they kept her in custody as an "illegal overstay" under investigation.
She had never breathed a word of these things to Qin Zhao'an, and he, it seemed, never asked.
Whoever sent this box wasn't just aware—they were delivering a tacit threat: I know who you are.
Lin Mian's heart jolted. Her mother had been dead for years, and family heirlooms like this were usually kept by the elders; the intent behind sending it was obvious. Her palms grew cold and clammy.
It was signed by Madam Shen, Qin Zhao'an's mother.
That night, Qin Zhao'an came home from work as usual.
He took off his coat and set his files neatly aside. As he walked through the living room, he noticed the agate-bead bracelet lying on the coffee table—she had spread it out on a piece of velvet, like a piece of evidence waiting to be analyzed.
"Your mother sent this?" she asked, placing the bracelet on the desk in front of him.
Qin Zhao'an looked up at her for a few seconds, then nodded. "She knows we registered."
"What does she mean by that?" Lin Mian kept her voice even, but she couldn't hide the slight tremble of her fingertips.
"The family has their own judgment," he replied, tone steady.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" She picked up the string of beads. "Do they expect me to be like her—marry into your family and hand over my name along with it?"
He didn't answer immediately, only watched her. After a long moment, he finally said, "The name you're using now was never yours to begin with."
That statement, more than any warning, felt like a cold, hard fact—sharp and blunt, sending a chill down her spine.
"You said I was a translator," she said softly, running a fingertip along the rim of her teacup. "You never asked who I translate for."
Qin Zhao'an's eyes lifted. "Who do you translate for?"
She fell silent for a moment, then finally answered, "A group of people who won't even sign their own names on agreements. They never show themselves—always hiding behind foundations and cultural exchange projects."
"Did you keep copies?" he asked.
"Some things, even if you burn them, stay in my head." Her tone was calm, yet it sliced through the quiet like a knife through still water.
Qin Zhao'an stared at her, his gaze growing colder by the second. "Do you have any idea how many strings are attached to you?"
"I do." She lowered her eyes. "And I also know you didn't save me out of kindness. You did it to keep all those strings of information from ever getting out."
"What is it that you people really want?" she asked quietly.
He cast her a look, voice still composed. "You've been quite busy lately. Adjusting… faster than expected."
Lin Mian's expression didn't falter, but suddenly the sip of tea in her mouth felt scalding hot.
"I heard you did pretty well a few days ago." He paused. "Worked seamlessly with Lu Yuan."
"So, you read the meeting minutes too?" she shot back.
"I never read meeting minutes." He stepped closer and murmured, "But around the port, there's always someone willing to share a little tidbit or two."
Lin Mian's back stiffened slightly.
He was standing beside her now, gaze still calm, though a slight curve tugged at his lips. "You're a clever one. I thought you'd need time to adjust. Looks like I underestimated you."
"I'm just doing my translation work," she answered coolly.
"Translation work?" He tilted his head at her, the hint of a smile fading. "And here I thought you came to play the 'spouse.'"
A heavy silence fell.
In the days that followed, Lin Mian was out of the apartment more often than not. At Lu Yuan's invitation, she had joined a multilingual data project jointly led by the port's Border Inspection Bureau and the External Liaison Department. It was essentially preliminary document consolidation work, and she was stationed at a newly built administrative building perched halfway up a hillside.
The building's exterior had a distinctly European style: gray-white stone walls inset with modern steel-and-glass paneling. From the top-floor meeting room, one could see the curve of the bay and the port area. The patchy glow of lights reflecting off the ships imparted a cold sense of order unique to this harbor city.
Qin Zhao'an's name came up from time to time.
"You mean Zhao'an? He used to coordinate with our team, but he's recently been reassigned to a joint task force," one colleague said.
"He's overseeing the western checkpoint now—rumor has it there's a major operation in the works," another added.
Lin Mian hadn't intended to pry, but when her fellow translators brought him up, there was a kind of implicit reverence in their tone. "He really doesn't seem like a regular field officer; one look and you can tell he's from higher up," someone murmured.
When she returned home, the apartment was empty and quiet. Lin Mian spread out the documents on the table and began proofreading them page by page. By close to nine o'clock, she heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.
Qin Zhao'an walked in.
He was still in his customs uniform, though he'd removed the epaulets and his sidearm. His shirt sleeves were slightly rolled up, and he carried a takeout meal in one hand. Lin Mian didn't move, and he said nothing. He simply set the takeout container on the kitchen counter, then turned and headed into the study.
Lin Mian's gaze drifted to the food box, noticing a small note clipped on top.
It read: Tomorrow at 1:00 PM, Old Customs Office Building, Chronicle Hall meeting. Dress formal.
There was no signature, but the handwriting was crisp and clear. Lin Mian held the note between her fingers for a long while. She knew exactly what it meant.
Chronicle Hall was one of the most symbolic venues in the old Customs building, always reserved for special visits or significant occasions. With her provisional status as a "spouse," she technically had no business being there.
She set the note back atop the container, thinking wryly, You never say a word, but you never fail to make arrangements.
Meanwhile, across the city at the Port Coordination Office, Qin Zhao'an sat under a dim lamp, perusing an encrypted report. Beside him was Zhao Jin — a colleague with no filter who was nevertheless extremely adept at handling situations.
"I told you that 'temporary spouse' of yours would have to enter the circle sooner or later," Zhao Jin teased. "In this circle, it's not about whether you want in — it's only a matter of time."
Qin Zhao'an didn't reply, keeping his head down as he added notes to the file. The lamp's light glinted coldly off his glasses.
Zhao Jin clicked his tongue. "For tomorrow's Chronicle Hall meeting, you'd better have a proper explanation ready. Old Shen will be there, and the Shen family is watching this closely."
"I know," Qin Zhao'an said evenly.
"Man…" Zhao Jin stretched lazily, half joking and half serious. "Just don't blow it when the time comes. We spent a lot of favors to keep her identity suppressed — if any of those foreign review officers catch on, no one will be able to cover it up."
Qin Zhao'an closed the report folder, his tone flat. "Which is why you should speak as little as possible tomorrow."
Zhao Jin raised an eyebrow. "You say that like I'm the one who can't keep his mouth shut."
They exchanged a brief look and a grin, the atmosphere between them subtle but laced with a certain tacit understanding.
That night, no rain fell in the port city. Wind swept through the long streets, ruffling the silhouettes under the streetlights. Lin Mian stood by the window, gazing at the lights of the distant docks, and quietly tucked that note away at the very bottom of a drawer.