Sun Rain Chapter 51

Shi Meng returned to his residence. He glanced several times at the marigolds planted in the yard but ultimately decided not to dismantle the awning he had recently installed.

It protected them from rain on cloudy days and sun on clear days—a dual-purpose shelter. What was wrong with that?

However, when he habitually reached for the watering can, he hesitated and didn’t go out to water the flowers. Adhering to a scientifically rigorous attitude, Shi Meng even checked online with his phone. The encyclopedia stated that marigolds indeed prefer dry conditions and dislike moisture. He naturally told himself that this choice was solely for the flowers’ well-being and nothing else.

After quickly fixing something for lunch, Shi Meng sat down in front of his easel.

He had already been registered for the painting competition by Teacher Ma. Since the theme was portraiture, Shi Meng spent a long time sketching with charcoal, unable to decide what to draw.

He wasn’t skilled at portraits and even felt a natural aversion to them. He had discussed this issue with Teacher Ma via email, and Teacher Ma suggested he try painting ordinary working people around him, capturing their most authentic appearance, as the simplest things are often the most moving.

So Shi Meng began searching his mind for people he had seen recently. Pan Jiawei had just gotten two new ear piercings, which didn’t fit the definition of simple at all; Aunt Pan had just permed her hair, requiring careful observation before starting; the Mr. Wei he met yesterday, in his words and deeds, was entirely a capitalist, not a working person; the breakfast shop owner was busy repairing glass and hadn’t opened this morning; and the person he saw at the police station this morning…

His pen tip paused, creating a crooked arc on the paper. Shi Meng took a deep breath and put down the pen.

He told himself that he must not have done enough rehabilitation, his hand was still unsteady, and since these were the only people coming and going in his life, it was normal to think of him.

With that thought, he pulled a rubber band from his pocket, recalling the doctor’s instructions from yesterday, and began stretching it back and forth between his thumb and the other four fingers for his recovery exercise.

He finished one round from the index finger to the pinky and was about to start over when a loud clang sounded outside—the iron gate being pushed open.

Following the sound, Shi Meng blinked instinctively when he saw the person standing at the entrance, carrying large bags, as if unsure if he was seeing things correctly.

The visitor was also visibly unsettled; her tightly clenched fists betrayed her nervousness.

After a long moment of silence between them, Li Bihan was the first to break the quiet. She said gently, “I had a rare day off today, so I thought I’d bring the things over directly. I planned to drop them off and leave, but I didn’t realize the iron gate wasn’t locked…”

Following her gaze, Shi Meng looked at the iron gate.

Although it had a lock, he usually just pulled it shut when he came home, regardless of whether it actually latched, as there was another door inside.

Shi Meng simply said, “Oh.” Since he hadn’t dealt with this situation before, he could only offer a dry, formal invitation, like one would to a guest: “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

The tea he offered was the floral tea Li Bihan had sent him.

With frequent visitors these past two days, Shi Meng had left the small porcelain bowl containing the tea leaves directly on the table.

Seeing that her gift was being properly used, Li Bihan smiled, pursed her lips, picked up the cup, and took a sip. She asked Shi Meng, “This floral tea wasn’t dried much, so the flavor is light. Do you like it?”

Shi Meng brewed a cup for himself, lifted his face from the cup, and nodded, “Yes.”

He thought that since he had accepted her gifts, he couldn’t very well turn her away. Although no one had taught him proper etiquette growing up, he understood this basic courtesy.

Li Bihan then mentioned the flowers in the yard: “Are those the sprouts from the seeds I sent you? It’s good you planted them early; they should bloom next spring.”

Her words inexplicably reminded Shi Meng of the few rose stems he had dug up. If they had taken root and survived, would they also bloom next spring?

After finishing her tea, Li Bihan stood up and said, “I brought a lot of things this time. Let me help you take them to the kitchen and sort them out.”

Shi Meng followed her in and watched as she took out exquisite bento boxes from a bag much larger than the insulated bag the previous person had brought. Some were transparent, others were printed with little rabbit patterns, just like the ones on his windowsill.

“This is beef sauce. Your Aunt Fang and I just perfected the recipe… This is pomelo tea, something I just messed around with myself. Try it, and if you don’t like it, just throw it away… This is cured sausage. When you don’t have time to cook, you can steam it with rice in the pot. Once it’s cooked, just slice it and eat. Remember to slice slowly, be careful not to burn yourself…”

Li Bihan pushed the jars and bottles toward Shi Meng while introducing them in as much detail as possible. Shi Meng’s attention, however, was not on the food but on Li Bihan’s hands.

These hands, which had once been pampered and never touched manual labor, were now marked by the passage of time with fine lines. There were even a few small cuts on them, likely accidental nicks from chopping vegetables.

Despite this, she had still knitted a new pair of gloves for Shi Meng.

This time they were five-finger gloves, with extra padding specifically added to the palm of the right hand. Li Bihan explained, “Winter is coming, and your hands shouldn’t get cold, especially the injured area. These are easier to move in, so you can wear them indoors.”

Shi Meng took them. The gloves were very soft, and the stitching was much neater than the last pair. After looking at them for a moment, he looked up: “What about you?”

Li Bihan was momentarily stunned. When she realized Shi Meng was asking about her hands, her reddened fingertips trembled slightly. She quickly said, “I’m fine. I came by car, so I won’t get cold. Don’t worry.”

Only after saying it did she realize that Shi Meng might have just asked casually and hadn’t meant to express concern.

Nevertheless, this was the first time Shi Meng had spoken to her voluntarily since the incident, and Li Bihan still felt a sense of flattered joy. She seemed unsure where to put her hands and feet as she tentatively suggested to Shi Meng, “I also brought some fresh pork bones. Should I make you a soup? I’ll just borrow the kitchen for a little while. You can do your work; I won’t disturb you.”

It wasn’t until he returned to the balcony and sat down in front of the easel that Shi Meng realized what he had agreed to.

He felt a little regretful, not because he was afraid to leave the kitchen to Li Bihan, but because he feared that if it happened once, it would happen twice. Once he got used to it, it would become difficult to break away—the same principle as boiling a frog slowly.

Shi Meng picked up his charcoal pencil and sketched a crouching frog on the paper.

The easel was Shi Meng’s safe space, so after drawing for a while, his restless heart calmed down.

The frog was finished, but it lacked a background. Shi Meng used his pencil to draw a lotus leaf beneath it.

Lotus leaf, lotus flower. The character Han (菡) means lotus flower. As if guided by something, Shi Meng’s gaze drifted toward the kitchen doorway again.

From this angle, he could see Li Bihan standing at the counter, head bowed, preparing ingredients. The late afternoon sunlight enveloped her in a gentle, hazy halo. Her slightly hunched shoulders and back were marks etched by time.

Her long, dark hair was tied up and draped over one shoulder. The structured coat outlined her slender, tall figure, reminding Shi Meng of how people had complimented his good proportions, saying he looked like a celebrity, and speculating that his mother must be very beautiful.

Mother…

This title, which rarely appeared in Shi Meng’s mind, had the power to shake him deeply.

Involuntarily, Shi Meng laid a new sheet of paper on the easel, held the charcoal pencil, and began sketching the scene reflected in his eyes as he watched.

Pork bones take a long time to simmer, so Li Bihan was busy until dusk.

When she came out and saw Shi Meng raising his hand to shield the drawing board, she smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I won’t peek.” She then pointed toward the kitchen. “The soup is ready. Would you like to try it?”

Following the principle of respecting the labor of others, Shi Meng took the small, steaming bowl and tasted it.

Meeting Li Bihan’s expectant gaze, he nodded, silently giving his approval.

Her initial anxiety vanished, and Li Bihan finally smiled genuinely, her eyes sparkling.

While eager to get closer to Shi Meng, she was also keenly aware of the principle of moderation. After Shi Meng finished a bowl of soup, she stood up, took off her apron, and prepared to leave.

Before departing, she offered a few reminders, like “Be careful living alone” and “Drink more hot water, don’t crave cold things.” Her steps toward the door gradually slowed due to hesitation.

Shi Meng walked her to the door. Seeing that she seemed to have more to say, he didn’t rush her, just stood silently, saying nothing.

When the door opened and the cool air outside rushed in, Li Bihan finally made up her mind. She pulled a piece of clothing from her still-bulky bag—even after taking out so many things—turned around, and slightly stood on her toes to drape it over Shi Meng.

“It’s a down jacket. I bought it a while ago, worried that mailing it wouldn’t be safe,” she said. “Your birthday is in a couple of days. The lawsuit is reaching a critical point, so I might not be able to take time off to come over. I’ll give you the gift now.”

Shi Meng wasn’t paying close attention, only feeling a sudden warmth on his body, followed by the familiar citrus scent—the scent Li Bihan always carried.

What he had once longed for and envied was now so close, within reach. Yet, he didn’t know how to respond, standing there dumbfounded, letting the thick clothing wrap him tightly.

The size was perfect, with enough room to add a thermal shirt underneath. Li Bihan patted Shi Meng’s shoulder, then stepped back two paces to admire him, smiling with narrowed eyes: “My Mengmeng looks good in anything.”

His heart trembled violently, a feeling of certain possession more intense than when he received the letter.

This made Shi Meng feel a little panicked; he even forgot to say thank you. It was Li Bihan, seeing his helpless expression, who somehow got teary-eyed.

“My Mengmeng deserves to have the best things in the world.”

She reached up again to straighten Shi Meng’s collar. Fearing he might feel burdened, she choked back her tears and said, “This isn’t compensation. It’s returning what rightfully belongs to you.”

Later that evening, Shi Meng felt a letter in his pocket.

People often use writing to convey things that are difficult to say directly, and Li Bihan was no exception.

She wrote in the letter: The way I treated you in the past is something I regret to this day. If you still blame me, then ignore me, or scold me if you must. If you don’t blame me, please don’t forgive me easily. Let me do more for you.

After reading it, Shi Meng exhaled, silently saying, I never blamed you.

He was willful and stubborn, but not unreasonable. Especially after experiencing life and death, he felt that everyone had difficulties and everyone made mistakes or overlooked things. If one constantly dwelled on the past, living would be too difficult.

But letting go did not equal acceptance. Letting go required no courage, but acceptance required a great deal—more than when he first took hold. Shi Meng was already exhausted; unable to pick it up, he could only remain listlessly where he was.

Similarly, after calming down, Shi Meng was certain he didn’t blame Fu Xuanliao either.

He had simply been pushed to a desperate edge, facing utter defeat, and in his urgency, he used attack as defense, trying to make himself look less pathetic, less like he was constantly being led around.

Once the impulse triggered by passive aggression passed, Shi Meng began visiting the breakfast shop frequently, helping the owner investigate the thief’s whereabouts.

In truth, he didn’t need much help. Only a few people came and went in this area. The owner, taking advantage of the closed shop to observe from the shadows, quickly found clues.

Today, Shi Meng visited as usual to check on the situation, hearing the loud wailing of a child from afar, accompanied by the owner’s booming scolding.

When he got closer, he saw that the one being hit was the owner’s youngest son.

This boy was considered the late-in-life child of the owner and his wife, and the whole family doted on him. It was said that the filling for the shop’s meat buns was adjusted to his picky taste, and the buns had consequently become a famous specialty, with customers always ordering a basket to go with their noodles or wontons.

Seeing Shi Meng arrive, the owner temporarily stopped, lifted the child off the bench, and brought him forward, apologizing profusely: “I’m sorry, great artist. This little brat caused trouble and made your friend take the blame.”

It turned out the child wanted to buy a toy, but his parents thought it was too expensive and refused. He remembered that their shop received a lot of money every morning, so he decided to steal some.

As for why he stole the painting too, the brat sounded quite wronged: “The drawing looked too real. I wanted to trace a copy. I climbed onto the stool to take it down, but I knocked over the table… and accidentally smashed the window.”

Only then did Shi Meng understand. No wonder the thief came and went freely, disappearing without a trace—it was an inside job.

He unfolded the drawing paper, which the child had folded into a square, and re-hung it on the wall. Shi Meng then helped the owner install surveillance cameras in the shop.

Finally, the owner and his wife sent him off with profuse thanks, handing him a thick stack of breakfast vouchers.

Shi Meng felt it was too many—he couldn’t eat them all in a year. The owner smiled, revealing two dimples, and said generously, “Bring your friend to eat! It’ll give me a chance to apologize to him.”

Shi Meng naturally wouldn’t relay this message.

Hearing that the police had already visited, educated the child, and informed them that the person had been released, Shi Meng returned home with peace of mind.

The neighbors were still discussing the incident, but Shi Meng let it go in one ear and out the other. When Aunt Pan came over to gossip, he only vaguely said it was a misunderstanding.

“It’s good that it was a misunderstanding,” Aunt Pan said while cracking melon seeds. “That detention room at the police station is no place for a person. I heard there’s no food, no water, not even a hard plank bed. Staying there for a few more days in this weather would surely make someone sick.”

It wasn’t until evening, when Shi Meng went downstairs to close the window after hearing the rain, and then heard the iron gate clanging, that he went out to lock it. He was ambushed by someone who rushed out from the corner and hugged him from behind, giving him a rough idea of what “making someone sick” entailed.

The moment he was embraced, Shi Meng recognized the person by his scent, so he subconsciously sighed in relief, then began to struggle.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Fu Xuanliao sounded utterly exhausted, his voice hoarse as if filled with grit. “Just like this. Let me hold you for a moment, just a moment.”

Shi Meng wasn’t sure how long “a moment” meant—a second or a minute—so he didn’t listen. He pried Fu Xuanliao’s arms apart, pushed back, and leaned forward, breaking free of the embrace.

Fu Xuanliao not only lacked the strength to hold Shi Meng tightly but was also pushed back, stumbling. Had the railing not been behind him, he might have fallen.

In the light spilling from the house, Shi Meng saw his defeated expression and his figure, which had visibly thinned in just a few days.

It was so cold, yet he was still wearing that thin outfit, and his exhaled breath was sporadic and faint.

As if confirming everything Aunt Pan had said, Shi Meng finished his observation and, driven by an unknown impulse, asked, “Was there no food in there?”

Fu Xuanliao braced himself against the wall and slowly straightened up. He paused at the question, then pulled the corners of his mouth into a faint smile.

“Are you worried about me?” he asked first, then looked at Shi Meng and confirmed, “You are worried about me.”

“I knew it.”

The familiar embrace from behind, the familiar scene and words, made Shi Meng feel as if he had suddenly traveled back to Christmas Eve ten years ago.

That person had used the same gritted, yet slightly wronged, tone to tell him: “I knew it… you like me too.”