The Gu family mansion was located halfway up the hill—a three-story white Western-style house built in the 1950s. Its exterior walls were covered in ivy, and the iron railings showed signs of rust, but the garden was meticulously maintained.
This house had been purchased by her grandfather, Gu Shiyong, during his lifetime. Though not the largest of the Gu family’s properties, it had the advantage of a prime location and tranquility. From the second-floor balcony, one could catch a glimpse of Victoria Harbour.
When she pushed the door open and entered, Ming Lan had already returned home and was sitting on the sofa speaking with the butler, Uncle Liu.
She wore a pale apricot silk blouse paired with dark brown wide-leg trousers. Her hair was neatly combed, and she had a pair of jade earrings in her ears. Her makeup was delicate but not heavy, suggesting she had just returned from outside not long ago.
As Gu Wangshu entered, Ming Lan immediately noticed her hair, damp and clinging to the sides of her face and neck.
Ming Lan stood up and walked over quickly, reaching out to touch her hair, then her cheek. Her fingers carried a faint scent of tea.
“You’re still weak—how could you go out in the rain?” Her tone held clear concern and reproach.
“I’m fine,” Gu Wangshu said.
“What do you mean, fine? Look at you—”
Ming Lan felt the fabric on her back and frowned. “You’re soaked through. Go take a hot bath first. I’ll have Sister Wen make you some ginger soup to ward off the chill. You’ve only just recovered—you can’t afford to fall ill again.”
Gu Wangshu nodded and was about to head upstairs.
To be honest, she still wasn’t entirely accustomed to interacting with Ming Lan.
Ming Lan was the mother of this body, the mother of her cousin Gu Xihe. Gu Xihe called her “Mom,” and so should she.
But every time those two words left her lips, she felt a subtle, indescribable discomfort.
Ming Lan was good to her—since she had “awakened,” she had been attentive and caring in every detail.
Sometimes Gu Wangshu even wondered: if Xixi were still here, she would probably be very happy to see her mother treating her so well.
But the person standing before her aunt now was no longer Xixi.
Just as she was about to continue upstairs, Ming Lan’s voice came from behind her.
Ming Lan turned back to continue speaking with Uncle Liu.
“Go to Hung Hom,” she said. “Tell Bingwen that Mr. Zhong from Beijing has come to Hong Kong and will be visiting. Remind him to come back and receive the guest. After all, he’s come all the way from Beijing—we should at least act like proper hosts.”
Uncle Liu nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, Madam. I’ll go right away.”
Gu Wangshu’s footsteps halted.
“Mr. Zhong from Beijing?” She stood on the stairs, turning halfway, her tone casual.
Hearing this, Ming Lan looked up and gave a soft “Mm.”
“Yes, from the Zhong family your cousin married into. You should call him brother-in-law when you meet him.”
Brother-in-law.
Gu Wangshu’s hand rested on the stair railing. Her fingertips tightened slightly, then relaxed.
“Didn’t Cousin divorce him a long time ago? Why is he still coming?”
Ming Lan straightened up and glanced at her.
“It’s a long story,” she said, picking up her teacup and taking a sip to moisten her throat before slowly beginning to explain.
“Your cousin only told us, right before she left, that she had already divorced the Zhong family before coming to Hong Kong. No one knew before that; the family always thought she was still the Zhong family’s daughter-in-law. She never said a word, not until the very end when she was in the hospital and couldn’t hold on any longer—”
Ming Lan paused here, her hand holding the teacup lowering slightly. Her gaze fell on a spot on the coffee table, as if recalling a memory that was difficult to bring to mind.
“Later, the Zhong family contacted us on their own,” she continued. “That was when we found out your cousin was still alive. You know, back then, he went missing in Yunnan.”
She set down the teacup and gently placed the lid on top.
“After reestablishing contact with the Zhong family, Guangdong was close to Hong Kong, and with the series of reform and opening-up policies, the business in Shenzhen grew bigger and bigger. Your father felt that maintaining this marital relationship with the Zhong family was advantageous for him.”
“Policy directions in Beijing, market access on the mainland, official communication channels—these things can’t be managed just through business connections. You need connections higher up.”
“So even though your cousin divorced the Zhong family, the relationship between the two families was maintained. On the surface, they were still in-laws, but underneath…”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning was clear.
Underneath, it was a business transaction.
After Uncle Liu left, the living room fell silent.
Outside, the rain had stopped, and the evening sun squeezed through the gaps in the clouds.
Water droplets still clung to the leaves of the banyan tree in the garden. Occasionally, when the wind blew, a few drops would fall with a “pitter-patter,” hitting the iron railings.
Gu Wangshu didn’t go upstairs.
She walked down the stairs, slowly approached Ming Lan, and sat down at the other end of the sofa.
Between them was the distance of a cushion—neither too close nor too far, a fitting reflection of the current relationship between this “mother and daughter.”
Gu Wangshu reached out and picked up a banana from the fruit tray on the coffee table, slowly peeling it. She peeled the banana skin piece by piece, folding it into neat strips and placing them on the edge of the tray.
Watching this action, Ming Lan felt an indescribable sensation.
“How was your luck at mahjong today, Mom?” Gu Wangshu suddenly spoke, her tone light, as if making casual conversation. “Did you win?”
Ming Lan was momentarily diverted by the topic, pulling her thoughts away from that subtle sense of dissonance. A proud smile appeared on her face.
“Today was quite lucky,” she said, lifting her chin slightly. “I won money from Mrs. Bai. Her luck was terrible today—she lost three rounds in a row. Her face was green when she left.”
As she spoke, she laughed, the corners of her eyes crinkling with fine lines, but she looked several years younger overall.
Gu Wangshu smiled along, then placed the remaining half of the banana on the tray and turned to face Ming Lan directly.
“Mom, I haven’t forgotten about the past, have I?” Her voice was soft, her pace slowed. “Lately, I’ve been sorting through old things, rummaging through boxes and cabinets, and I found something.”
Ming Lan hummed in response, not paying much attention, and reached out to pour tea.
“What is it?”
“A letter my cousin left for me.”
Ming Lan’s hand froze mid-air, the teapot’s spout aimed at the cup, but no tea poured out.
“To be precise,” Gu Wangshu looked into her eyes, “it’s a will.”
The teapot was set down. Not so much set as “plunked,” producing a soft clink, the lid wobbling slightly.
Ming Lan froze completely on the sofa, turning to look at Gu Wangshu, her eyes widening.
“What did you say?”
“Please keep your voice down.”
Ming Lan instinctively lowered her voice. “You mean… Wangshu left a will?”
“That can’t be right. At the hospital, in front of us—with Mr. Ji there too—she said she was leaving her share to your cousin Gu Xiuyuan. Everyone present heard it, and Mr. Ji even took notes.”
Gu Wangshu: “Actually, at the time, my cousin wasn’t sure whether Xiuyuan was even still alive. He had been out of contact for over a year by then, and no one knew where he was.”
“Then why didn’t you bring it out earlier?” Ming Lan asked.
Gu Wangshu said nothing.
The silence lasted three or four seconds.
Ming Lan suddenly realized. “Oh, I forgot—you don’t remember anymore.”
She sighed, her expression growing complicated.
Yes, her daughter had lost her memory. She no longer remembered the past, why she hadn’t brought it out, or what her state of mind had been back then.
Gu Wangshu took the offered excuse, her voice tinged with a hint of emotion. “I probably didn’t want my cousin’s inheritance back then. After all, I never did anything for her. She was so good to me, and I likely felt I didn’t deserve what she left me. The me back then… probably didn’t think that far ahead.”
The words were sincere, carrying the unique uncertainty of someone who had lost their memory about their own past.