A Jin had imagined that being inside Lin Wan's childhood room would stir up all sorts of emotions—that lying on her bed under her blanket might trigger some wayward, indulgent fantasy.
Instead, after a shower, he lay down and fell asleep instantly, dreamless.
When he woke again, night had fallen.
He noticed the blanket felt a bit damp and sniffed in mild discomfort.
Yet in this narrow, slightly stiff little bed, a quiet sweetness bloomed from somewhere deep inside him—soft, absurd, and impossibly satisfying.
He lingered a moment before getting up, then groped along the wall for the light switch.
Nothing happened.
In the other bedroom, he found Lin Wan sitting by the headboard, absorbed in a photo album.
Two open suitcases rested on the floor, neatly filled with assorted belongings.
"The light in your room's broken," he said as he sat down beside her.
He glanced at the photograph she held. "That your grandmother?"
Lin Wan hummed softly.
A Jin lowered his head to look at her.
Old black-and-white photographs, their edges yellowed by time.
He pointed at a portrait and said, "She had a lot of presence."
A faint, warm smile rose on Lin Wan's face.
"She was. And strong. My grandfather passed early, and she raised her child alone, never remarried. But later…"
Her voice thinned out.
Seeing her sadness, A Jin wrapped an arm around her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Let the past rest."
"No. I want to say it."
Her stubborn streak flared; she sniffled softly.
"For so many years, I've never spoken about it of my own accord. That woman—"
She let out a self-mocking laugh. "Calling her that is disrespectful. I should call her my mother. But…"
Her voice caught. "I can't."
The ache in A Jin's chest was so sharp it felt physical.
He tightened his hold, resting his chin lightly atop her head.
"Wan Wan…"
If she needed to speak, he would let her.
Some wounds were tumors—only by cutting them open could heal begin.
"She had no conscience. Every time someone said I looked like her, I'd get angry."
She wiped her nose. "Let me tell you a secret. You saw the cherry tree in the yard, right?"
"Mhm."
"Under it, there's a tin box—one of those cookie cans. It was sent by that person… my father. I dumped the cookies out and kept the box. Inside it is a stack of papers."
She looked up at him.
"You know what they are?"
His heart clenched.
He whispered, "What?"
"They're letters. Assignment letters—written to them."
It hit him like a blow.
He stroked her hair gently.
"You miss them?"
"No."
Her eyes dimmed; her tone cooled.
"In elementary school, the Chinese teachers loved giving that stupid assignment—writing letters to family. Those were just homework."
She sighed.
"If I feel anything for them at all, it's only hatred."
"Wan Wan…"
He searched his mind—half a lifetime of books, and not a single line could comfort her.
"The first few years, she'd still send money and things back. Chocolate, dolls, pretty dresses. I gave the chocolate and dolls to classmates. Cut the dresses up and threw them away. Because none of it was what I wanted."
A humorless laugh slipped out.
"The ridiculous part is—she never even left an address. Was she afraid I'd look for her?"
She sneered softly.
"As if I would. If she didn't want me, I wouldn't want her either."
Tears slid down again.
A Jin wordlessly wiped them with his sleeve—then complained,
"Damn, this really isn't cotton. Doesn't absorb a thing."
Lin Wan huffed.
"Ungrateful. If you don't like it, take it off and give it back."
He feigned shock.
"You really want me to take it off?"
She shoved him.
"Shameless."
Laughing, he pulled her back into his arms.
Then, serious again, he murmured,
"Wan Wan… I honestly want to find your mother."
"For what?"
"So she can see you now. A daughter this good, and she threw you away. Let her regret it forever."
"…"
After calming her, he kept flipping through the album and finally found photos of young Lin Wan.
The first was a group picture—likely taken in this same courtyard.
An old woman sat in a wicker chair, and beside her stood a soft-faced little girl of eight or nine, fair-skinned and round-cheeked, smiling like a tiny spring blossom.
The second photo was a solo portrait—she looked eleven or twelve, already stretching into her adult frame, slim and tall, her chin sharper.
Her eyes were especially striking—clear, luminous, piercing through the camera straight into him.
Combined with the warm body leaning faintly against him and her soft, subtle scent…
A Jin felt heat flash through him.
He coughed quickly to mask it and flipped the page—
Nothing more.
"What, only two?" he protested.
Putting the album away, Lin Wan sat upright.
"I didn't like taking pictures then."
"I was the opposite," A Jin laughed.
"Loved photos as a kid. Whenever a camera came out, I had to burn through the whole roll."
"Narcissist."
She had barely finished when A Jin suddenly vanished from the room.
She assumed he got offended—but then remembered who she was dealing with.
His face was thicker than a fortress wall; offense was unlikely.
Sure enough, not even a second later, he darted back in his hand, stretched toward her like a triumphant child.
"Here, look at mine."
"No interest," Lin Wan said flatly, stuffing the album into the suitcase and pressing down clothes to zip it shut.
"Fuck, talk about hurting a man's pride."
He grumbled theatrically—then clung to her side like glue.
"Not happening. I saw yours, so you have to see mine. Fair's fair."
With a sigh, Lin Wan cast a dismissive glance—
Then a second glance.
Her eyes widened.
"This is you?"
A Jin burst out laughing.
"Why the hell else would I carry it? You think I'm sick?"
Lin Wan smothered a smile.
"I wouldn't rule it out."
"Well? Verdict?"
He nudged her eagerly.
"You photograph well."
"Fuck—'photograph well'? This is called accurate representation!"