The Remaining Warmth Of Fog Harbor Chapter 9

The Heart’s Wall Opens Slightly

The anonymous twenty thousand yuan in her account felt like a warm stone that had been weighing on the bottom of Shen Zhiyi’s heart for three whole days. During those three days, she could neither eat nor sleep, tossing and turning in distress. She had combed through every transaction record without finding a single clue, yet all her intuition pointed frantically toward one name—Lu Wanheng.

She didn’t dare send a WeChat message to confirm it. Her sensitive pride stood in the way; she was afraid of being abrupt, afraid of being presumptuous, and even more afraid of breaking the professional decorum that remained between them. But the gratitude of being saved from a desperate situation weighed on her so heavily she could hardly breathe. After much thought, she finally decided to visit in person to express her thanks. Even if the other woman denied it, she wanted to voice the gratitude in her heart and offer a small painting she had done herself as a token of appreciation beyond the deposit.

That afternoon, the fog in Wugang thinned slightly, revealing a pale glimmer of daylight. Shen Zhiyi made a point to put on her only clean cream-colored knit sweater paired with a pair of faded jeans. she tied her hair loosely at the back of her head, revealing her slender, fair neck. She carefully placed the small painting she had stayed up all night to finish into a linen drawing tube and picked out a single stem of white bellflower at the flower shop downstairs. It was clean and elegant, neither ostentatious nor appearing as if she were deliberately trying to curry favor.

The high-end apartment where Lu Wanheng lived was located in the riverside area of the New Town District, a world away from the cramped and damp studio in the Old Town District. The glass curtain walls pierced the sky, security was tight, and the elevator went directly to the top floor. Every detail exuded the minimalism and cold elegance of a financial elite. Standing in the apartment lobby, Shen Zhiyi’s knuckles turned white from gripping her things. When she gave the room number to the front desk, her voice carried an imperceptible tremor.

In the interval while waiting for the elevator, she repeatedly traced the texture on the outside of the drawing tube. Inside was a work she had poured her heart into: a palm-sized piece of watercolor paper depicting the entrance to the alley in Wugang where they first met. The wooden door of the old studio was half-open, surrounded by swirling mist, and a black car was parked by the roadside. Standing beside the car was a tall, upright silhouette. The brushstrokes were gentle, and the details were filled with her hidden thoughts. She hadn’t signed it, only painting a tiny bellflower in the corner as a silent confession.

The elevator doors on the top floor slid open slowly. The entrance foyer was bright and airy, the light gray marble floor spotless. The air carried a faint scent of cedar, exactly the same as the scent on Lu Wanheng. Shen Zhiyi stood at the door, clutching the bouquet awkwardly, not daring to step inside uninvited.

Lu Wanheng was wearing a set of dark gray loungewear. The loose fabric softened the sharpness she held in the workplace. Her long hair was tied back in a casual low ponytail, making her look less like a cold, hard investment banking elite and more like a softened version of herself at home. When she saw the uneasy Shen Zhiyi at the door, a trace of nearly imperceptible surprise flickered in her eyes. She immediately stepped aside to make a path, her voice gentle. “Come in. Why have you come over so suddenly?”

“Miss Lu, I’m sorry to disturb you.” Shen Zhiyi bowed slightly, her steps as light as a cat’s as she cautiously stepped into the foyer and put on the prepared cotton slippers. “I… I have something I wanted to tell you in person.”

The living room was open and transparent, with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the river. The river view in the mist was as hazy as a painting. There were no redundant decorations; the sofa was deep black, the coffee table was a minimalist acrylic, and the bookshelves were filled with financial classics and industry reports. Only the blank wall still held the spot she had previously mentioned for hanging a painting. As Shen Zhiyi’s gaze swept over it, her heart skipped a beat involuntarily.

“Have a seat. What would you like to drink? Lemon water or coffee?” Lu Wanheng walked to the open kitchen and opened the refrigerator, her movements natural and casual.

“Lemon water is fine, warm please. Sorry for the trouble.” Shen Zhiyi sat on the edge of the sofa, her body ramrod straight and her hands on her knees. She even lightened her breathing, like a young deer that had wandered into strange territory, both wary and docile.

Lu Wanheng brought over two glasses of warm water and sat on the single sofa opposite her. Resting her elbow on the armrest, her calm gaze fell upon her. She didn’t rush her, yet she gave her enough courage to speak.

Shen Zhiyi took a deep breath and first handed over the white bellflower. The petals were pure white and the stem was a vibrant green, as clean as the girl herself. “Miss Lu, thank you for the custom commission last time, and thank you for… being willing to recognize my art. This is a small token of my appreciation.”

Lu Wanheng took the flower, her fingertips inadvertently brushing against Shen Zhiyi’s. Both of them paused for a moment as a tiny spark of electricity traveled from their fingertips to their hearts. She placed the flower in a glass vase on the coffee table. In the minimalist space, the white bellflower looked unexpectedly harmonious.

“And then?” Lu Wanheng looked up, a knowing smile in her eyes. She had likely guessed the reason for Shen Zhiyi’s visit but deliberately didn’t point it out, wanting to hear how this sensitive girl would broach the subject.

Shen Zhiyi gripped the hem of her sweater and gathered the courage to look up, meeting Lu Wanheng’s eyes. Her voice trembled slightly, but it was incredibly sincere. “Miss Lu, three days ago, an anonymous transfer of twenty thousand yuan appeared in my account. It was exactly the amount I desperately needed. I asked everyone I knew and found no clues. I… I guessed it was you.”

Lu Wanheng’s movement as she picked up her water glass paused slightly. She neither admitted nor denied it, simply watching her quietly, waiting for her to continue.

“I know this is very presumptuous, and it might just be my own wishful thinking.” Shen Zhiyi’s cheeks flushed red as she quickly pulled the small painting from the tube and held it out to Lu Wanheng with both hands. “But regardless of whether it was you or not, I wanted to say thank you. Some things happened at home recently, and I was at the end of my rope. That money helped me through my urgent crisis and saved my studio. I painted this myself. It’s not for any commercial use, just a small gesture of my thanks. If you don’t mind, you can keep it as a small ornament.”

Lu Wanheng reached out and took the painting, her fingertips brushing over the watercolor texture of the paper. The cool touch carried the physical grain of the pigment. Her gaze fell on the silhouette in the painting—the alley, the mist, the old studio, the black car. Every detail accurately corresponded to the scene of their first meeting. The tiny bellflower in the corner echoed the fresh flower on the table, hiding the girl’s delicate and secret thoughts.

It felt as though something had gently knocked against her heart, turning it completely soft.

Having spent ten years in the financial world, she had seen too many sycophantic smiles and received countless priceless paintings, antiques, and luxury goods. Yet nothing had ever struck the softest part of her heart quite like this palm-sized painting. There was no utility, no calculation, only pure gratitude and care. It was like the rare sunlight of Wugang, piercing through layers of thick fog to land in her long-frozen world.

“I like it very much,” Lu Wanheng said, looking up with a sincere gaze devoid of any polite formality. “It is more precious than any commercial work I have ever seen.”

Hearing those words, the heart that had been suspended in Shen Zhiyi’s chest for three days finally landed. Her eyes grew slightly hot, and she quickly lowered her head to hide the moisture. “I’m glad you like it. I was just afraid it wasn’t good enough and that I was being rude.”

“It’s not rude; it’s a surprise.” Lu Wanheng placed the painting in the most prominent spot on the coffee table and looked back at her, her tone softening. “Has the situation at home been resolved? If there are still difficulties, you can tell me directly. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Those words were like a fuse, instantly detonating the grievances Shen Zhiyi had suppressed for so long. Growing up in a family that favored boys over girls, she was used to enduring everything alone, used to reporting only good news and hiding the bad, and used to being exploited and drained. No one had ever told her she “didn’t have to carry it all alone.” Her parents only pressured her for money, her younger brother only demanded things as if it were his right, and even her best friend could only offer a helpless apology.

Yet this person, whom she had only met three times, had easily spoken the comfort she craved most.

Shen Zhiyi’s nose felt stingy and tears welled in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall. “It’s been resolved. The rent is paid, and things at home have quieted down for now. Thank you, Miss Lu, truly. If it wasn’t for that money, I might have already packed my things and left Wugang, never to paint again.”

“Don’t give up on painting.” Lu Wanheng’s tone was suddenly firm, carrying an unquestionable seriousness. “Your talent shouldn’t be trapped in the mire of your family, and your art shouldn’t be buried. As I said before, I’ve saved the wall in my office for you. In the future, if you have any original works, you can send them to me first. If they are suitable, I will buy them all. Not as a commercial commission, but as a collection—out of respect for your creation.”

Shen Zhiyi looked up sharply, her eyes brimming with tears but shining like stars. “Is that really okay? I’m just a newcomer, my work isn’t good enough yet…”

“Whether it’s good or not is for me to decide.” Lu Wanheng interrupted her, a very faint smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “To me, the value of a work is never determined by market pricing, but by the heart behind it. Your paintings have emotion, warmth, and the soul of Wugang. That is enough.”

She paused, deliberately slowing her voice and shedding all her elite aloofness. “Also, you don’t have to keep calling me Miss Lu. It’s too formal. Just call me Wanheng, like before.”

“Wanheng…” Shen Zhiyi repeated softly. The name rolled off her tongue, melting with tenderness. She gathered her courage, looked up at Lu Wanheng, and gave a faint, clean smile. “Then you should call me Zhiyi.”

“Zhiyi.” Lu Wanheng spoke the name, the coldness in her expression completely dissipating. “Knowing the meaning in the art, and knowing the intent in the heart. It suits you well.”

Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, landing between the two of them and dispelling the last trace of restraint and strangeness. Shen Zhiyi’s tense body completely relaxed. Leaning back against the sofa, she dared for the first time to openly observe Lu Wanheng’s casual appearance at home. There was no pressure from a business suit, no distance of a workplace elite—just a gentle, patient person willing to listen.

They talked about painting, the fog of Wugang, the streets of the Old Town District, and their respective rhythms of life. Lu Wanheng spoke of the high pressure and rules of investment banking in a flat tone that hid an unknown exhaustion. Shen Zhiyi spoke of the late nights and inspirations of an illustrator, her eyes shining with a sincere devotion to art. Two completely different worlds merged wonderfully at this moment, without class barriers or status gaps, leaving only a sincere dialogue between two souls.

Shen Zhiyi mentioned how she painted until dawn every day, eating instant noodles to meet deadlines. She spoke of the leaks and dampness in the old studio, and of her parents’ favoritism and her brother’s demands. There was no complaining, only a calm narration, yet the loneliness in her eyes did not escape Lu Wanheng’s notice.

“You don’t need to take on so many low-priced commercial commissions in the future,” Lu Wanheng said softly. “I can introduce you to reliable art platforms or commission your original works long-term. I want to ensure you have enough time to paint what you want without having to compromise for a living.”

“I don’t want to trouble you…” Shen Zhiyi waved her hands quickly, not wanting to become overly dependent.

“It’s not a trouble, it’s a collaboration, and it’s something I want to do.” Lu Wanheng’s gaze was steady. “I want to preserve this rare purity within Wugang.”

Shen Zhiyi’s heart raced out of control again. Her cheeks felt hot, and she quickly took a sip of water to hide the fluttering in her chest. She could clearly feel that the relationship between them had already crossed the boundary of a pure client-artist working relationship. A layer of secret concern and tenderness had been added, like the river mist outside the window—hazy, yet real and touchable.

They chatted until evening, when the fog on the river gathered again and the sky grew dark. Shen Zhiyi rose to take her leave, not wanting to intrude further. When she reached the foyer, Lu Wanheng stopped her.

“Wait a moment.” Lu Wanheng picked up a black automatic umbrella from the shoe cabinet and handed it to her. “The fog is rolling in outside, and there’s a high chance of rain. Take this and be careful on your way back.”

The umbrella carried the warmth of Lu Wanheng’s palm. As Shen Zhiyi took it, they both paused the moment their fingers touched. The atmosphere of ambiguity quietly warmed up. The misty floor-to-ceiling window reflected their overlapping silhouettes, so quiet that they could hear each other’s heartbeats.

“Thank you, Wanheng,” Shen Zhiyi said softly, her eyes filled with gratitude and an imperceptible attachment.

“Be careful on the road. Send me a message when you get back to the studio.” Lu Wanheng stood at the door, watching her enter the elevator. She didn’t look away until the doors slowly closed.

She walked back to the living room, her gaze falling on the watercolor painting and the white bellflower on the coffee table. The scent of cedar intertwined with the fragrance of the flower, adding a touch of warmth to the entire space. She picked up the small painting, her fingertips repeatedly tracing the bellflower in the corner, a gentle curve involuntarily rising at the corners of her mouth.

The wall around her heart, frozen for ten years, had quietly cracked open a fissure under this girl’s clean gaze and delicate brushstrokes. Warm light filtered in, and it could no longer be closed.

Meanwhile, Shen Zhiyi walked along the riverside path under the black umbrella. The fog-laden river breeze brushed against her face, but she didn’t feel cold at all. The handle of the umbrella still held Lu Wanheng’s warmth. Her heart was filled with gratitude and a fluttering pulse. The painting that had been accepted, the way she had been called “Zhiyi,” and the comfort of being told she “didn’t have to carry it all alone” were like seeds taking root and sprouting in her heart.

She pulled out her phone and sent a WeChat message to Lu Wanheng: Wanheng, I’ve arrived safely at the studio. Thank you for today. I’m glad you like the painting.

The reply came almost instantly. Lu Wanheng’s message popped up: I like it, very much. If you ever need anything, reach out to me anytime. Don’t be a stranger.

Shen Zhiyi gripped her phone and leaned against the wooden door of the studio. Looking at the thick fog gathering outside the window, she wore the first truly relaxed smile she had had in days.

She knew the anonymous transfer must have been Lu Wanheng. She also knew that her feelings for this mature, gentle woman had already exceeded the simple liking one has for a client. But she didn’t dare break the surface. She could only hide this fluttering heart in her brushes, in every painting, and within the unceasing mists of Wugang.

Back in the penthouse apartment, Lu Wanheng solemnly placed the small watercolor painting in the most prominent spot on the bookshelf. Standing alongside the cold financial texts, it became the only warm color in the entire space. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, looking toward the Old Town District. The fog was hazy, obscuring the outline of the studio, yet she could clearly remember the flush on the tips of Shen Zhiyi’s ears and the pure light in her eyes.

She picked up her phone, typed a line in the dialogue box, then deleted it. In the end, she only left one sentence: The fog will dissipate. Take it slow.

The moment it was sent successfully, she knew that her calm, restrained life had been completely disrupted by the girl who had broken in.

The concern outside of work, the tenderness beneath anonymity, and the heart carried within the painting were like an invisible thread, tightly winding together two people from different worlds. The pure professional boundaries had completely vanished. Ambiguous emotions quietly germinated in the damp air of Wugang—unspoken, yet mutually understood.

the fog in Wugang grew thick again, but Shen Zhiyi’s world now held a warm light that would never go out, all because of the person before her.