The Remaining Warmth Of Fog Harbor Chapter 20
byParting Ways on a Rainy Night
The residual dampness from the storm clung to the bluestone pavement along with the cold wind, weaving the recently dispersed fog back together. Milky white vapor rose from the river and drifted ashore, wrapping around the eaves, window frames, and streetlamps of the Old Town District, turning all of Wugang into a hazy ink wash painting. Shen Zhiyi’s figure turned into the narrow alley of the art studio. The black wooden door closed with a creak, shutting out the car’s headlights, the damp night air, and the gaze watching her from behind.
Lu Wanheng sat in the driver’s seat, never starting the engine. The headlights cast two warm yellow beams through the thick fog, falling directly on that wooden door like a stubborn, unyielding sentinel. The passenger seat still held the faint scent of turpentine and watercolors. A blanket lay draped haphazardly over the edge of the seat, seemingly still retaining Shen Zhiyi’s warmth, yet the air in the cabin was as cold as a thin layer of ice.
She reached out and tapped her phone. On the screen was a message box she had edited countless times. The text in the input field had been deleted and revised over and over—”Su Man and I ended things ten years ago,” “The family is pressuring me, I’m afraid of involving you,” “It’s not that I don’t want to go public, it’s that I can’t.” Every sentence hid a heavy burden of hardship, but in the end, she deleted them word by word, leaving only a blank space.
The catastrophe ten years ago remained a nightmare. The family had used cutting off resources, freezing assets, and threatening to smear her by exposing her relationship to force her and Su Man apart, crushing all the bravery and candor of her youth. Since then, she had learned to endure, to exercise restraint, and to hide her true heart beneath a cold, elite shell. She could confront Su Man for Shen Zhiyi, spend millions to host an art exhibition, and clear away all external thorns, yet she alone dared not draw the family’s blade toward this clean, pure girl.
She was afraid Shen Zhiyi would find out that the person portrayed as the cold light in the paintings had once bowed and compromised under family pressure. She feared Shen Zhiyi would realize that behind the phrase “collaborative artist” lay not contempt, but a desperate attempt at protection. She was afraid her own struggles and wretchedness would destroy the unique light in the depths of Shen Zhiyi’s heart.
The family letter in her inner pocket pressed against her chest, burning with pain. The words on it were bone-chilling: “Break off all contact with Shen Zhiyi within one month and withdraw the investment in the art exhibition. Otherwise, all assets under your name will be frozen, and all positions in the investment bank will be revoked. The events of the past will be returned to you exactly as they were.”
This was the secret she couldn’t tell, the insurmountable high wall standing between the two of them.
Lu Wanheng leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, a deep furrow appearing between her brows. The fog outside the car grew thicker, drifting over the windows and condensing into fine droplets that slid slowly down the glass like silent tear stains. She could imagine Shen Zhiyi’s appearance in the studio—eyes downcast, clutching a paintbrush, hiding all her grievances and disappointment within the drawing paper, just as Lu Wanheng suppressed all her hardships and pressure in the depths of her heart.
Both carried heavy burdens. At the crossroads of the rainy night, there were no hugs, no confessions, and no explanations—only a polite “Goodnight” and a closed wooden door, separating their feelings within the thick fog and silence.
Ultimately, she did not send that message. She simply turned off the headlights, allowing the car to vanish into the thick fog like a beast retracting its claws, hiding all its sharpness and vulnerability within the night of Wugang. The low roar of the engine sounded as the black sedan slowly turned around, driving onto the riverside avenue toward the investment bank building. She didn’t look back, yet every inch of the journey was filled with reluctance.
Inside the studio, Shen Zhiyi leaned against the door and slowly slid to the floor. The cold wooden panel against her back couldn’t dispel the chill in her heart. The drawing tube was placed haphazardly by her feet, the drafts inside still carrying the light of the exhibition hall and the dampness of the rainy night. The top sheet was an unfinished night view of Wugang; the river, only half-painted, left a blank space that mirrored her currently unresolved heart.
The conversation in the car echoed repeatedly in her ears. Lu Wanheng’s trembling voice, the vulnerability in her eyes, and that sentence—”You are the person I want to spend the rest of my life with”—were like a glimmer of light piercing through the thick fog in her heart. But the silence that followed, the unspeakable hardships, and the past that remained veiled covered that glimmer once more, leaving only an impenetrable confusion.
She could accept Lu Wanheng’s past, Su Man’s existence, the class divide, and even the family’s interference. The only thing she couldn’t accept was being excluded from Lu Wanheng’s world, being forced to be a “collaborative artist” who couldn’t see the light of day, and having to wait indefinitely for even a single honest explanation.
Shen Zhiyi reached up to wipe the moisture from the corners of her eyes. She pushed herself off the ground and walked to the easel, lifting the dust cover over Cold Light. In the painting, Lu Wanheng was immersed in thick fog, a warm light hidden in her eyes, where coldness and tenderness intertwined. But looking at it now, that layer of fog seemed exactly like the barrier between them—impenetrable, uncrossable, and untouchable.
She picked up her brush, dipped it into the deepest gray-blue, and began to smudge a thicker fog onto the edges of the canvas, stroke by stroke. She blurred the silhouette of the person in the painting slightly, enveloping that warm light in even denser vapor. The brush rustled against the paper, each stroke carrying suppressed thoughts, melting all her grievances, anxieties, expectations, and disappointments into the pigment.
The warm yellow light of the studio fell on her profile, her long lashes casting shallow shadows. The scent of turpentine filled the air but could not dispel the coldness in her heart. She picked up her phone and opened the chat with Lu Wanheng. The “typing…” status at the top flickered several times before finally returning to silence. No message ever came.
Shen Zhiyi’s fingertip hovered over the screen. She wanted to send, “What exactly is your hardship?” She wanted to send, “I’m not afraid of the storm, I’m only afraid of your silence.” She wanted to send, “I don’t need an account of everything, I only need honesty.” But in the end, she simply pressed the lock button and tossed the phone onto the desk, letting the screen go dark like a heart sinking to the bottom of the water.
She walked to the window and pushed it open a crack. The cold wind rushed in with the thick fog, hitting her cheeks with a bone-chilling cold. Outside, Wugang had been completely swallowed by the fog. The outline of the river was invisible, the lights blurred into indistinct spots, and pedestrians had vanished from the streets. Only sporadic headlights moved slowly through the mist like lost, lonely boats.
After this rainy night, the fog in Wugang was thicker than ever before. It was thick enough to hide the river view, the streets, and the lights—and thick enough to hide two hearts that wanted to draw closer.
Lu Wanheng returned to her apartment on the top floor of the investment bank building. The vast space was cold and empty, devoid of any sense of home. She took off her coat, which was damp with mist, and tossed it onto the sofa. She took a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and poured a full glass. Without adding ice, she downed it in one go. The spicy liquid burned her throat but could not suppress the bitterness in her heart.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Wugang was a blur. The lights of the Riverside Art Center flickered in and out of the fog. That was the exhibition hall she had built for Shen Zhiyi, the protection she had poured her heart into, yet now it felt like a mocking symbol, reminding her of her own cowardice and powerlessness. She walked to her desk, took Cold Light down from the wall, and held it gently in her arms. The texture of the paper was rough, yet it carried Shen Zhiyi’s temperature, acting as both a soothing balm and a set of shackles.
She could clearly sense Shen Zhiyi’s disappointment and understood the despair behind the words “I don’t want to wait anymore.” But the family’s blade hung over her head. She didn’t dare gamble—gamble that Shen Zhiyi could withstand the suppression of capital, gamble that Shen Zhiyi could face the criticism of public opinion, or gamble that she could protect this girl from a repeat of the nightmare from years ago.
The phone screen lit up with a call from the family assistant. Lu Wanheng stared at the screen for a long time before finally pressing decline, silencing the phone, and tossing it onto the desk. Holding Cold Light, she sat before the window and watched the fog-shrouded city, sleepless all night. Her eyes held an inseparable mix of exhaustion and tenderness, while her heart surged with hardships and determination. She had to break free from the family’s control as soon as possible. Before the opening ceremony of the art exhibition, she had to give Shen Zhiyi a legitimate identity and unreserved honesty.
In the studio, Shen Zhiyi also remained awake all night. She sat before the easel, repeatedly modifying the version of Cold Light she had added fog to, carving her heart’s concerns into the paper stroke by stroke. As dawn approached, she finally put down her brush. In the very corner of the painting, using an extremely fine tip, she wrote a tiny character—”Yi”—hiding it deep within the thick fog like a secret known to no one.
She didn’t know what Lu Wanheng’s hardship was, how long this silent tug-of-war would last, or when the thick fog of Wugang would finally dissipate. She only knew that she still couldn’t let go of that cold light, nor the person who would drape a blanket over her, shield her from the wind and rain, and make things clear with an ex.
The first glimmer of dawn pierced through the thick fog and fell upon the river in Wugang, yet it still couldn’t penetrate the heavy vapor. The entire city remained hazy. Shen Zhiyi packed her painting tools and headed to the Riverside Art Center as usual. Her steps were steady and her expression calm, hiding all her concerns in the depths of her eyes, remaining the professional and restrained collaborative artist.
Lu Wanheng’s black sedan was parked punctually at the alley of the studio. As usual, she leaned against the car door, her dark suit impeccable, her features cold and showing no emotion. Seeing Shen Zhiyi approach, she took the drawing tube, her voice as steady as if there were no ripples at all: “The fog is heavy this morning. Walk slowly. Breakfast is already prepared at the exhibition hall.”
“Thank you, President Lu.” Shen Zhiyi nodded slightly, her tone polite and distant, a completely different person from the girl who had vented her grievances in the car on that rainy night.
The two walked side-by-side toward the car without any extra conversation or eye contact. The thick fog swirled around them, blurring their figures like two parallel lines—seemingly close, yet always separated by an insurmountable distance.
The interior of the car remained quiet, save for the traces of water left by the windshield wipers and the sound of the thick fog flowing outside the windows. Lu Wanheng held the steering wheel, her peripheral vision sweeping over Shen Zhiyi in the passenger seat again and again. The words she wanted to say were stuck in her throat, ultimately turning into a plain reminder: “The temperature dropped last night. Don’t catch a cold.”
“I’m fine. There’s no need for President Lu to worry.” Shen Zhiyi looked straight ahead, her voice calm and without waves.
The car slowly drove into the fog-shrouded streets, the headlights piercing the vapor to illuminate the blurred road ahead. The fog in Wugang had become even heavier after the rainy night, wrapping around the buildings, the river, every street and alley, and the unclarified relationship between the two—the unspoken feelings and the unresolved barrier.
They were still the publicly declared collaborative artist and investor, still maintaining a professional distance in public, and still harboring their own concerns in private—silent, pulling at one another, protecting, and waiting.
In Lu Wanheng’s heart was the heavy pressure of her family and the hardships she dared not be honest about, along with a desperate protection and a burgeoning resistance. In Shen Zhiyi’s heart were unanswered questions and a suppressed affection, along with a restrained sensibility and an expectation she refused to give up.
The fog connected the city, but the fog in their hearts was hard to disperse.
The unclarified relationship, the unresolved misunderstandings, and the dishonest past were like three layers of thick fog, tightly wrapping around their emotions. Yet deep within the fog, that cold light continued to flicker, that heartbeat remained burning, and that protection persisted, waiting for a moment when the wind would come and the fog would clear—waiting for a late confession, a complete honesty, and a fearless embrace.
The black sedan drove into the parking lot of the Riverside Art Center, the thick fog rolling beneath the wheels. Shen Zhiyi pushed open the car door and took her drawing tube, saying softly, “I’ll go check the drafts first. Please take your time coming in, President Lu.”
She turned and walked into the exhibition hall without looking back. Lu Wanheng sat in the car, watching her figure disappear into the thick fog, her fingertips tightly gripping the steering wheel as a flash of determination crossed her eyes.
No matter how thick the fog in Wugang was, there would eventually be a day it dispersed. No matter how deep the knot in their hearts was, there would eventually be a moment it was untied. This time, she would no longer remain silent or retreat. Even if she had to break with her family, even if she had to give up all her capital and status, she would pull that girl out of the thick fog and protect her openly by her side, telling everyone that she was Lu Wanheng’s lover—the only light for the rest of her life.
Inside the exhibition hall, Shen Zhiyi stood before Cold Light, looking at the warm light piercing through the fog in the painting. She gently raised her hand and brushed it over the paper. She told herself silently in her heart: wait a little longer. Wait for the fog to disperse, wait for the wind to come, wait for that honesty hidden in silence, and wait for that cold light to completely pierce through the fog in her heart and illuminate her entire world.
In the fog-shrouded Wugang, the two who had parted ways on a rainy night carried their heavy concerns, holding on in silence and waiting amidst the tug-of-war. The wind had not yet risen, the fog had not yet dispersed, and their feelings were not yet clear, but the connection in their hearts had already crossed through layers of thick fog, tied firmly together, waiting for the moment the ice would break.