Zhong Jinghe pushed open the glass door and strode out.
From Gu Wangshu’s vantage point, through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lobby, she first saw a pair of black leather shoes emerge from the car and step onto the ground, followed by the hem of dark gray suit trousers.
The man stood up, tall and slender, his movements unhurried, carrying an air of authority that commanded respect without anger.
Zhong Jinghe had already stepped forward to greet him, bending slightly at the waist. His body blocked the man’s face, making it difficult for Gu Wangshu to see clearly.
But she knew who it was.
It was Zhong Jiming.
She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.
She could control her facial expression—at this moment, her face was blank, as calm as a still lake.
But it seemed she couldn’t control her heartbeat.
That heart, as if it didn’t belong to her, pounded violently against her chest, once, then again, carrying an emotion she was unwilling to acknowledge.
Zhong Jiming patted Zhong Jinghe’s shoulder, his voice muffled as it filtered through the glass: “Let’s go inside first.”
The two pushed open the door and entered the hotel lobby.
A wave of cool air greeted them, and the light from the crystal chandelier fell on Zhong Jiming’s profile.
His features were deep-set, his temples neatly trimmed. He wore a dark gray suit without a tie, the top button of his shirt undone, exuding an air of casual elegance.
But the spot where Gu Wangshu had been standing was now empty.
Only a faint, elusive fragrance lingered in the lobby—the scent of lilies the hotel front desk replaced daily.
Or perhaps not.
As Zhong Jiming passed the empty space, his footsteps paused for a moment.
But it was only for an instant.
He continued walking forward.
Back in the hotel room, Zhong Jiming first took off his suit jacket and casually draped it over the arm of the sofa, then walked to the window and drew the curtains halfway open.
He turned around and glanced at his nephew, who was sprawled lazily on the sofa flipping through a hotel magazine.
Zhong Jiming recalled what his second brother had specifically reminded him before he left for Shenzhen.
“While you’re in Shenzhen on business, go check on him.”
“That kid has never been easy to handle since he was little.”
“He graduated from Peking University but didn’t bother finding a proper job. Instead, he ran off to Shenzhen to start some advertising company.”
“You’re his third uncle—he might listen to you a little. Everything I say goes in one ear and out the other.”
Now, looking at the young man’s utterly carefree demeanor, he still asked, “So you plan to stay in Shenzhen like this?”
Zhong Jinghe didn’t even look up, casually replying, “What’s wrong with Shenzhen? It’s the forefront of reform and opening up. Who says you have to stay in Beijing after graduation?”
“I just asked a question,” Zhong Jiming walked over and sat down in the single armchair opposite, his tone calm. “Do you have to be so defensive?”
Only then did Zhong Jinghe put down the magazine and look up, wearing an expression that was both guilty and stubborn.
He had graduated from the Chinese Department of Peking University the previous year. His family had arranged a path for him to join Xinhua News Agency, but without even saying a word, he packed his bedding and took a train south.
Zhong Jihui was so angry he smashed a teacup at home. If it weren’t for his wife, Li Qingyu, stopping him, he would have chased him to Shenzhen and dragged him back.
“I’m just afraid you’ll be like my dad,” Zhong Jinghe shrank his neck slightly, “authoritarian and domineering, forcing me back to Beijing.”
Zhong Jiming leaned back on the sofa, reaching up to loosen the second button of his shirt collar. “Don’t worry about that. I have no interest in meddling in your affairs, as long as you stay on the right path and don’t get involved in anything illegal or disorderly…”
“You can be a hundred percent sure of that!”
Zhong Jinghe immediately perked up, sitting straight on the sofa and raising two fingers as if taking an oath. “Uncle, I promise you, I’m just shooting advertisements and running a legitimate business.”
“I started a company with a classmate from Peking University—Jinghe Advertising, named after me. We’ve already landed two orders from international brands…”
He grew more and more excited as he spoke, gesturing with his hands.
“Once I make some money, I even want to make movies. Uncle, you have no idea how popular Hong Kong films are right now. Did you watch A Better Tomorrow when it came out last year? Chow Yun-fat played Mark! That trench coat, those sunglasses…”
“Alright, alright,” Zhong Jiming raised a hand to cut him off, a hint of helplessness on his face. “You don’t need to explain your dreams to me in such detail. I can’t digest it all.”
Zhong Jinghe chuckled and fell silent, but his eyes still sparkled with the unrestrained enthusiasm unique to youth, full of hope for the future.
The room fell quiet for a moment.
Zhong Jiming stood up and walked over to the coffee table to pour himself a glass of water.
He took a sip and frowned slightly.
Watching his uncle’s back, Zhong Jinghe suddenly spoke up again, this time with an unmistakable tone of pride:
“Uncle, you wouldn’t believe it—I ran into someone at the International Trade Building the other day, and she’s practically my muse!”
Zhong Jiming didn’t turn around. “Muse?”
“You know, the kind of person who inspires creativity,” Zhong Jinghe stood up from the sofa. “My goddess, and she’s truly beautiful. It’s like… how do I put it?”
He paused, thinking carefully.
“When she’s not smiling, she looks quite cool and distant, like standing under a ginkgo tree in late autumn, you know? Very far away, very quiet, making you afraid to approach. But that day, when she mentioned Beijing, she smiled—just once…”
“She has two dimples, and that smile felt like an entire spring suddenly emerging from winter.”
After saying this, Zhong Jinghe himself seemed taken aback, probably surprised he could utter such sentimental words. The tips of his ears visibly reddened.
Zhong Jiming turned around with his glass, his expression calm and unreadable.
“Alright, alright,” he set the glass down. “I’m not interested in hearing about your goddess.”
“If you really like her, go pursue her seriously. Don’t mess around with unnecessary things.”
Shifting the topic to relationships, Zhong Jinghe changed the subject. “Never mind, you wouldn’t understand this stuff anyway. Oh, by the way, Uncle, I heard you’ve been transferred back to Beijing?”
Zhong Jiming gave a faint “Mm.”
“Are people setting you up on blind dates again?”
Zhong Jiming glanced at him. “How did you know?”
Zhong Jinghe replied, “I heard it from my mom when I called her last time! She said they introduced you to a girl from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs this time—good family background, good looks, and she’s quite interested in you…”
“Your mother’s sources are quite reliable.”
Zhong Jinghe’s mother, Li Qingyu, also Zhong Jiming’s second sister-in-law, was an internist at Peking Union Medical College Hospital.
“Uncle, you’re not getting any younger…”
“Enough.” Zhong Jiming’s tone didn’t change, but Zhong Jinghe instinctively fell silent.
After all these years of interacting with his uncle, he knew all too well what that tone meant—it was the end of the discussion. One more word and you’d be shown the door.
Zhong Jiming walked to the window and pulled the curtains open a little wider.
As dusk deepened, he gazed outside, his voice returning to its usual warmth. “I have dinner plans tonight. If there’s nothing else, close the door on your way out.”
“Got it!” Zhong Jinghe complied readily, springing up from the sofa. “I’ll take my leave then, won’t disturb you any longer, old man.”
At the doorway, he glanced back one last time before pulling it open.
Zhong Jiming stood by the window, his back turned, his silhouette sharply outlined by the light filtering in from outside.
The room was dim, and his uncle stood there like a painting.
Zhong Jinghe sometimes thought his uncle seemed rather lonely, but he would never say it out loud.
He gently closed the door.
The room returned to silence.
Zhong Jiming remained by the window, his gaze fixed on the distant lights, yet seeming to see nothing at all.
Muttering his nephew’s earlier words—”old man”—the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. To a nephew in his early twenties, he probably did seem like an old man.
That brat.
But the brat had grown up, reaching the age of youthful infatuation.
Dimples, ginkgo trees, spring emerging from winter—who knew if the kid’s advertising slogans were any good, but he certainly knew how to describe a person.
He pondered for a moment.
Then, withdrawing his gaze, he picked up the room phone on the coffee table and dialed a number.