To his surprise, the young girl wasn’t startled in the slightest, nor did her face show any hint of disgust.
She simply nodded and continued to gently blow on his wound as she treated it, asking no further questions.
She didn’t ask what he did for a living or how he had gotten injured, as if none of that mattered.
After disinfecting the wound, she found that there was no gauze left in the medical kit.
Sprout took out her own handkerchief, folded it into a long strip, and bandaged him up, even tying a cute little bow at the end.
When she finished, she packed up the medical kit.
Suddenly, she flashed a sweet smile and said, “The rain has stopped outside.”
Silas Sutton looked out the window.
Sure enough, sunlight was piercing through the clouds, casting a rainbow over the wet ground.
“I have to go help in the kitchen,” Sprout said as she put the medical kit away.
“You can sit here for a while and then leave whenever you’re ready.
The little boys and girls in the courtyard are still waiting for dinner!”
She walked to the door, then suddenly turned back.
Plucking a lush green leaf from a potted plant on the windowsill, she walked back over and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” Silas asked in confusion.
“A lucky clover.” She smiled faintly, her smile as clear and pure as the sky after a fresh rain.
“Even though it only has three leaves, it’s still a symbol of good luck.
It’s for you.
I hope you don’t get hurt as much from now on.”
Silas took the tiny leaf and held it in his palm.
It felt soft to the touch and carried the crisp, fresh scent of greenery.
“Oh, right,” Sprout paused at the door again.
“Stop messing around on the streets.
If you don’t have anything to do, you can come here and volunteer.
The younger kids need a male role model.
If you have proper work to do, you won’t go out picking fights anymore.”
With that, she left.
Silas was left sitting alone in the room, clutching the lucky clover in his palm.
Around his arm was her handkerchief embroidered with crabapple blossoms, and the faint, clean scent of her soap lingered in the air.
He sat in the orphanage for a long time that day, watching through the window as she played with the children in the yard.
She chased after a little boy kicking a ball, the sunlight dancing on her flying hair, her laughter bright and crisp.
That scene was like a beam of light shining into a world that had been dark for far too long.
From that day on, he began visiting the orphanage every weekend when Sprout had time off from school.
Sometimes he played ball with the kids, and sometimes he helped with odd repairs.
More often than not, he simply sat in the corner and watched Sprout tell stories to the young orphans.
He never revealed his true identity, only claiming to be a small businessman.
Sprout didn’t ask too many questions either.
She treated him with gentle politeness, but as his visits became more frequent, they grew increasingly familiar and close.
Sprout even began to look forward to his visits, asking when he would come back next.
Gradually, the two of them became inseparable.
During his days volunteering at the orphanage, he watched Sprout patiently teach a stuttering child to speak slowly.
He watched her tutor the orphans with their homework, and he watched her use the money she earned from her embroidery to buy medicine for a sick child.
Whenever he offered his own money to help her, she would reject it without hesitation.
Bit by bit, these moments seeped into him like spring rain soaking into parched earth.
One weekend, the orphanage organized a spring outing by the river for the children.
He splashed and played in the water with the kids.
When he noticed Sprout secretly glancing at him from the riverbank with rosy cheeks, he deliberately pretended to drown, flailing in the river and calling for help.
Seeing Sprout jump into the river with complete disregard for her own safety, splashing wildly before dragging him to shore, he closed his eyes and secretly curled his lips into a smile.
However, when he returned to the orphanage to volunteer next, he heard that Sprout had a stomachache and hadn’t gone to school for several days.
It was then that he learned she had caught a chill from jumping into the river to save him, and that it had happened right during her menstrual cycle.
Filled with guilt and heartache, he started recording everything about her from that moment on.
The children had secretly told him Sprout’s birthday.
She liked jasmine tea but disliked coffee.
She would unconsciously chew on the end of her pen when reading.
Her eyes would curve into little crescents when she was happy.
He solemnly noted all these trivial details in his notebook.
On every page, he drew a small bean sprout, and with every stroke, he felt as if he were drawing it directly onto his own heart.
Sprout always said she was like a weed, capable of growing anywhere.
But he felt she was more like a sprout—seemingly fragile, yet possessing the resilient strength to pierce through the darkness and grow toward the sun.
He had almost lost control once.
It was a summer night.
He had helped out at the orphanage until late.
When he was leaving, he saw her sitting alone on the swing in the yard.
Bathed in the moonlight, she was looking up at the starry sky, her profile so beautiful under the moon that it felt unreal.
In that moment, he wanted to walk over, embrace her, and tell her everything—his true identity, his past, and the unspeakable feelings for her that were growing within him day by day.
But in the end, he just stood there, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.
He didn’t deserve her.
His hands were stained with blood; his world was full of scheming and filth.
She, on the other hand, was as clean as a blank sheet of paper, as pure as a ray of sunlight.
How could he use his dark hands to taint that light?
So, he locked all those feelings deep inside his heart, and inside that notebook.
He simply continued to volunteer on time every week, helping her fix the leaky roof, buying new sneakers for the kids, and silently leaving a hot cup of tea at her door when she stayed up late studying.
Until that incident occurred.
One of the venues under his control was raided by the police, implicating Sean Crane and Ryan Rhodes.
If the evidence proved conclusive, both of them would be sentenced to at least three years in prison.
Silas made his decision with barely any hesitation.
He pulled every string he could to take the fall and shoulder all the charges himself.
During his final week before going to prison, he still visited the orphanage on time.
Sprout looked a bit exhausted that day, with faint dark circles under her eyes.
“You haven’t been looking well lately,” Silas remarked, seemingly casually, as he fixed the hinges on the courtyard gate.
Sprout sat on the steps, her hands propped on the ground behind her, gazing up at the sunset on the horizon.
“It’s nothing.
Just a little tired.”
Silas’s movements paused for a second.
He wanted to ask what was wrong and tell her that he could help, but in the end, he only said, “Get some rest.”
When he left that day, he stood at the courtyard entrance for a long time—so long that Sprout came out in confusion and asked, “Is something else the matter?”
Silas stared at her deeply, as if trying to carve her image into his very soul.
The setting sun bathed her in a golden glow, the gentle breeze rustling her hair as she tilted her head slightly, her clear eyes looking straight at him.
“Sprout,” he said, taking her somewhat cold hands in his, his voice hoarse.
“You…
you’re so beautiful, I really like you…
Please grow up quickly, I…”
He paused, gathering all his courage.
“I want to make you my wife.
Is that okay?”
Holding her hands, he felt Sprout’s body tremble slightly.
At the time, it was right before Sprout’s college entrance exams.
He knew it was inappropriate to say such things then.
But if he didn’t say it now, he would never have the chance.
He carefully watched every expression on Sprout’s face, fully prepared to accept the impending rejection, or even…
a slap.
Yet, amid his deep apprehension, he didn’t see panic or disgust on Sprout’s face.
Instead, he saw a hint of shyness and anticipation slowly emerge.