“We’ve met each other’s families and signed the marriage certificate. Why shouldn’t I—”
Mu Xun’s voice suddenly caught in his throat.
Feeling the tremor of the person in his arms pass through the fabric of his suit jacket, he loosened his grip slightly and looked down.
Sheng Yuan was biting down hard on his lower lip, looking genuinely terrified by him. His eyelashes fluttered rapidly, and the small patch of broken, reddened skin made his face look as pale as paper.
Mu Xun’s adam’s apple bobbed. It wasn’t until he saw moisture welling up in the other’s eyes that he finally dropped the hand pinching the side of Sheng Yuan’s waist.
It took Sheng Yuan a long time to find his voice again, the tail end of it dissolving like mist drifting away on the wind.
“There’s no why, there’s nothing at all.” He gave Mu Xun a weak push, his voice trembling as he said, “I just don’t like you, just like you don’t like me.”
“I—”
Barely letting out a single syllable, Mu Xun abruptly cut himself off.
He had indeed said out loud that he didn’t like Sheng Yuan; that was undeniable.
Mu Xun also sensed his own unusual behavior tonight, feeling a baseless surge of restlessness.
He let go of Sheng Yuan and walked off to the side alone to catch the breeze.
He breathed deeply of the damp night air, the tiny trace of alcohol in his blood broken apart by the wind. Gradually calming down and recalling what had just happened, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and slap himself.
His surname was Mu; he was the eldest young master of the Mu family, backed by a powerful clan—the very foundation of his lifelong wealth and privilege.
And Sheng Yuan? Sheng Yuan was merely the illegitimate son of a declining family.
Setting all that aside, how could he possibly ever take a liking to a deaf person?
That was something neither permitted nor accepted within his world.
At the far end of the European-style colonnade, from behind a pair of closed white doors, came the muffled, indulgent strains of classical music, Tchaikovsky’s June: Barcarolle.
The beat rocked back and forth, sweeping all the squalor and hesitation hidden within this sleepless night ashore upon black-and-white oar blades.
Sheng Yuan scrubbed furiously at his earlobe and cheek with his sleeve, finding every spot touched by those lips entirely filthy.
When he raised his eyes again, he had already composed himself, tacitly agreeing with Mu Xun to leave what happened a few minutes ago behind.
Without lingering a moment longer, he hurried past Mu Xun’s side. Just as he didn’t slow his pace, a sudden force caught him by the wrist.
“I’ll have the driver take you,” Mu Xun said.
“I’ll walk back myself,” Sheng Yuan refused, without looking back.
“It’s too late, and cabs are hard to get around here.”
“I said I’ll go back myself.”
Mu Xun was not a patient man; he pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, holding back his temper.
Averting his gaze, he glanced at the attendants standing on either side of the doors—one was staring up at the sky and the other down at the ground, putting on a clumsy performance of having seen nothing at all.
In the end, he let go of that slender wrist and waved a hand to dismiss him, saying, “Go on, go on. I couldn’t care less about you anyway.”
Once out of Mu Xun’s sight, Sheng Yuan practically jogged all the way downstairs, running into the woman in the red dress again as he passed the gaming room.
Goldie nearly bumped into him, clutching her chest with a gasp, “Darling, what are you in such a rush for?”
Sheng Yuan had no time to explain. After hurriedly apologizing to her, he spun around and rushed downstairs once more.
Only when he reached the open ground in front of the manor, felt his shoes sink slightly into the soil, and found himself enveloped by the damp air did he feel as though he had dropped from the extravagant clouds back into the real world.
This was the world where he belonged.
In a nearby garden, a grand fireworks show was being prepared, the cheerful shouts of the crowd drifting from time to time into his hearing aid.
Sheng Yuan’s backpack and clothes were still in Mu Xun’s car. Finding a quiet, secluded corner, he lowered his head to check his phone and reply to messages while waiting for a driver to come open the doors for him.
Clusters of fireworks rose into the air amid cheers from the crowd, and the escalating waves of noise finally caught his attention.
He turned off his screen, shifting his gaze from the phone to the night sky overhead.
Countless star-shaped fireworks bloomed across the sky, lingering for a few seconds before slowly fading away.
Then another cluster shot upward, long and bright, like a flash of lightning instantly tearing open the dark curtain of the night. It climbed higher and higher, bursting brilliantly at its peak as a louder wave of cheers erupted from the crowd.
It was a milky-white rose, its contours rendered even softer and more luminous against the pitch-black night.
As the light spread, the petals unfolded softly, dragging a long, feathery tail behind them—the rose’s vines.
Rooted in the soil and climbing upward, it bloomed high above the romantic Tzigovi Manor, gradually dissolving into countless fine specks of light under the gaze of the crowd until it vanished entirely.
Brilliant light and shadow rippled across Sheng Yuan’s light-colored eyes. His hands hung at his sides, his fingertips slowly rubbing the rose in his palm.
Even he couldn’t understand why he insisted on keeping this single rose that could never be given away.
Lost in the sight, he failed to notice when he stepped on a slippery cobblestone. Feeling as though the soles of his feet were coated in oil, his vision suddenly blurred.
The expected pain never arrived. A strange touch at his arm steadied him firmly. Like a feather lifted by the wind, he hovered for a moment before landing unharmed upon a branch.
With his heart still racing and his mind thoroughly blank, Sheng Yuan saw a pair of immaculate black leather shoes abruptly intrude into his field of vision.
Swept into his sight along with them was a blood-drop-like red mole.
“Watch your path.”
He heard an indifferent voice.
The shadow cast beside him enveloped him from head to toe. Raising his head slowly within that shadow, he saw that the man had already pulled away and walked off, leaving him with only a blurred back.
“Uncle—”
His voice called out to stop him just in time.
The driver had already opened the car door for the gentleman, waiting quietly at the side.
Hearing his voice, Mu Xiaoduo paused slightly and turned to look at him.
There was no moon tonight; the man’s upright figure was steeped in the darkness, the hem of his coat fluttering crisply in the wind.
Plucking up his courage, Sheng Yuan stepped forward, feeling as though every single strand of hair on his body was tense.
He stopped a few paces away from the man, taking a deep breath of the damp night air, though the words he let out were soft and somewhat fragmented: “The gift… thank you for the gift, Uncle.”
Standing against the light, Mu Xiaoduo’s sharp features were swallowed by the dimness, his voice seemingly wrapped in the heavy night.
He asked, “Do you like it?”
Clutching that single rose, Sheng Yuan nodded. “I like it.”
“As long as you like it.”
Sheng Yuan’s heart gave a flutter, like a harp string plucked astray by a fingertip, sending rippling vibrations deep into his chest.
Not knowing what else to say, he stood frozen in place, staring fixedly at his own toes.
In a puddle beneath his feet, he caught sight of his own eyes.
His gaze held an expression that felt completely foreign even to him.
Dressed in thin layers, Sheng Yuan shivered slightly in the night wind, fragile and easily bent like a reed.
Mu Xiaoduo took off his coat, walked over, and handed it to him casually. “It’s chilly at night. Throw this over your shoulders.”
Dazed, Sheng Yuan looked at the black coat resting over his arm, still holding a warm human body temperature. Beneath the damp scent of rain, a faint, lingering trace of cool sandalwood drifted around him.
His lips parted to make a sound, but right in the gap as a car door opened and closed, he caught sight of a gorgeous, flowing evening gown, its expensive fabric wrapping around a woman’s figure.
His heart sank heavily, as though tumbling from the heights ten thousand times over.
His “thank you” vanished into the sound of the Rolls-Royce starting up.
Then, the car pulled away smoothly, the half-rolled-down window rising bit by bit to cut off the outside world. The man sitting in the back seat had slowly drifted right through his life.
The dark car drove off into the night until its lights disappeared entirely. Only then did Sheng Yuan slowly retract his gaze, only to notice numerous rose petals scattered across the ground, floating in puddles or crushed beneath shoe soles, turning the earth into red mud.
He hugged the coat tighter.
To Mu Xiaoduo, he was perhaps nothing more than a small, trembling animal helped in passing through a storm.
The man was not stingy with bestowing a shred of warmth, but it went no further than that, merely a matter of gentlemanly courtesy, devoid of any personal motives or special exceptions.
Perhaps the man would never know that his unintentional act had left a lasting mark upon another life.
On this romantic night, heartbreak and sleeplessness were as common everywhere as the roses of Tzigovi Manor.
Inside a guest room of the manor, a sweet moan suddenly rang out, resembling the thin cries of a newborn kitten.
The room was filled with warmth and the aroma of alcohol. In the dimness, only a single red ember glowed and waned.
With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Mu Xun lowered his gaze to look at Lanyin.
As the cigarette burned shorter and shorter, his breathing grew heavier.
Perhaps this was the moment when whispering bashful, flirtatious words would be most fitting, yet he remained utterly silent.
Just as they reached their peak, the curtains were suddenly yanked open.
Brilliant fireworks burst through the French window, casting dancing shadows across the floor.
Lanyin’s cheeks flushed red as she panted against Mu Xun’s shoulder.
Raising her eyes to look at him stealthily, she saw him staring unblinkingly out the window toward the downstairs, his eyes filled with an inscrutable emotion.
“What is it?” she asked hoarsely.
Mu Xun remained silent.
He had seen his uncle take off his own coat and hand it to the thinly clad Sheng Yuan.
Holding another man’s clothes, he had stood alone in the wind for a long time…
“It’s nothing,” he said.
With a sharp swish, Mu Xun pulled the heavy curtains tightly shut, plunging the room back into darkness.
He picked Lanyin up and began a new round of release.
In the end, Sheng Yuan still didn’t throw away that rose.
He pressed it between the pages of a book, a few weightless sheets of paper flattening out a young man’s secret feelings.
Memories are covered over by new ones. In the nights that followed, as Sheng Yuan lay in bed, he would occasionally recall the red mole on the inside of the man’s wrist.
Strangely enough, even though the man’s facial features were far more striking and sharp, he could never quite picture them; the face in his memory always remained blurred.
Sheng Yuan had missed many chances to look at him closely, which was why, in his heart, the man’s image felt like nothing more than a shifting, ethereal shadow, or a wash of ink dominating a traditional painting.
That striking red mole on his wrist felt like a stray drop of vermilion spilled right into the center of the canvas.
And so, his nights were left with a hole burned clean through by that single red mole.