The moment Pei Shuyi turned around, Jiang Congli finally saw her face clearly.
Her figure and bone structure were both exquisite.
Her skin was very fair, but it was the kind of fairness that seemed untouched by sunlight for years, looking as fragile as fine porcelain.
Only her eyes were exceptionally clear and bright, like the streams of Qingtan Mountain, untainted by dust.
The light in the Qingtan Temple’s side room was already dim. Jiang Congli stood with his back to the light, his entire figure shrouded in the shadows at the doorway, lost in thought.
Pei Shuyi stood frozen in place for a few seconds.
Suddenly, the sound of rain around her became exceptionally clear.
The man’s features were difficult to make out in the dim light—only the sharp lines of his jaw and the outline of his tall, straight nose were visible. His presence felt both profound and imposing.
His gaze rested on Pei Shuyi, and she immediately felt the weight of that stare.
Pei Shuyi met those unfathomable eyes: “You’re here to pick up Grandmother Jiang, right? She’s asleep. Please keep your voice down.”
With that, she walked past Jiang Congli, opened her oil-paper umbrella, and stepped into the rain without looking back.
As they passed each other, a faint scent of sandalwood brushed past Pei Shuyi’s nose.
In the curtain of rain, the woman’s pale skirt fluttered gently, like a flower blooming in the downpour.
Jiang Congli withdrew his gaze and entered the side room.
On the bed, the old madam seemed to have been awakened by the rain. She turned over and, catching sight of a familiar figure in her peripheral vision, asked, “Congli, is that you?”
Jiang Congli leaned forward slightly, his voice low and restrained: “I’ve come to take you home.”
The old madam murmured in response, then suddenly seemed to remember something and half-opened her eyes: “Where’s that young lady from earlier?”
“She left.”
“That girl is nice,” the old madam said with a smile, her eyes still closed.
“Very well-behaved.”
Jiang Congli did not respond.
It was already ten minutes later by the time Pei Shuyi returned to the small courtyard where she lived.
Aunt He, who took care of her closely, was anxiously pacing around: “Miss, why are you drenched? You’ve only just recovered—what if you catch a chill again?”
“It’s fine, Aunt He. I don’t feel unwell,” Pei Shuyi said, handing the umbrella to Aunt He and walking into the room.
Aunt He didn’t dare take any chances and hurried to the stove to prepare ginger soup for her.
Pei Shuyi sat by the window, watching the continuous rain outside, and recalled the unfathomable eyes she had seen earlier at the doorway.
Those eyes—she had seen them five years ago, abroad.
At the time, nineteen-year-old Pei Shuyi was rushing through hospitals overseas to fulfill an agreement with her father.
She remembered it clearly: it was snowing heavily that day.
She had been helping a child with congenital heart disease complete some paperwork.
In her haste, as she turned a corner, she bumped into someone.
To say she bumped into him wasn’t entirely accurate.
The man reacted swiftly. Just before her shoulder could collide with his chest, one of his hands had already steadied her arm, halting her forward momentum.
With his support, Pei Shuyi regained her balance, but a few pages of the documents in her arms scattered and drifted to the ground.
She looked up.
Before her stood a young man wearing a dark gray overcoat, a light dusting of snow on his shoulders.
His eyes were unfathomable, like an ancient well, reflecting her image with undisturbed calm.
Behind him stood a group of foreigners in suits, one of whom wore a name tag identifying him as the hospital director.
“I’m sorry,” Pei Shuyi said first, in English, as she crouched down to pick up the scattered pages.
The man crouched down as well.
The hem of his dark gray coat swept across the floor. He was quicker than her, his slender fingers already picking up the farthest pages and handing them to her.
Pei Shuyi reached out to take them.
“Thank you,” she said again.
Jiang Congli’s gaze shifted from the documents in her hand to her face. Behind him, the group of foreigners looked puzzled at the young girl crouching on the floor picking up papers, waiting awkwardly.
He stood up and handed the documents back to her. Pei Shuyi quickly rose to take them.
“Be careful, little one.”
Jiang Congli spoke in standard, clear Mandarin, his voice low and muffled, like the cold before snow hits the ground.
Pei Shuyi was taken aback.
He was actually Chinese too.
Before Pei Shuyi could gather her thoughts, the man had already turned his head and said something in English to the dean behind him. Then, he walked past Pei Shuyi and headed toward the other end of the hallway.
The group followed him, leaving in a grand procession.
Pei Shuyi stood where she was, watching the back of his dark gray coat disappear at the end of the corridor.
The melted snow on the floor was stepped on by his leather shoes, leaving a faint trail of watermarks that quickly dried.
She looked down at the documents in her hand, then at the disappearing watermarks.
The words “little one” echoed in her mind. She wrinkled her nose and muttered softly, “You’re the little one.”
Then, holding the documents, she turned and walked away.
After that, she never saw him again.
The rain outside the window continued to fall.
Aunt He came in with a bowl of ginger soup and noticed her troubled expression. “Miss, drink some to ward off the cold.”
…
Pei Shuyi thought the reason she remembered Jiang Congli was likely because her memories from ages 19 to 24 were blank.
She had been in a coma for five years in a Boston hospital bed.
This body, poisoned and comatose, had slept for five full years like a rusted machine, every joint screaming with discomfort.
Just as she struggled to adapt to her own body, she also struggled to adapt to the bustling city of Beijing.
So when one of the clan elders suggested she accompany him to the mountains for a period of quiet recuperation, she gladly agreed.
Although the toxins in her body had been cleared, they had left lasting damage.
Her immune system was far weaker than that of an ordinary person. After getting caught in the rain in the afternoon, even after drinking ginger soup, she developed a high fever that night.
The rain didn’t stop at night either.
Pei Shuyi hazily tried to turn over, but her body wouldn’t obey, as if pinned to the bed by something. She couldn’t even lift a finger.
“Aunt He…” she called out, her voice as faint as a mosquito’s hum.
No one answered.
The sound of rain outside the window was too loud, pattering noisily on the roof tiles, swallowing all other sounds.
Pei Shuyi’s consciousness drifted between clarity and confusion.
“Aunt He…!”
She called out again, using all her strength.
This time, her voice finally carried.
Aunt He, who lived in the small room next door, quickly threw on her clothes and rushed over at the noise.
Pushing the door open, she saw the person on the bed, pale as paper, curled up under the blankets, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
“Miss!” Aunt He hurried over in three quick steps, reaching out to touch Pei Shuyi’s forehead. The heat made her pull her hand back instantly.
“Oh heavens, how did she get so feverish!”
Pei Shuyi barely managed to open her eyes, seeing Aunt He’s panicked face. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Aunt He was at a loss.
She frantically wrung out a cold towel and placed it on Pei Shuyi’s forehead, then went to pour warm water to try and feed her. But Pei Shuyi was delirious with fever, and the water spilled from the corner of her mouth—she couldn’t swallow at all.
“No, this won’t do.” Aunt He was so anxious that her palms grew sweaty.
Aunt He had been assigned from the old residence to care for Pei Shuyi after she arrived at Qingtan Temple. Although she had known beforehand that Pei Shuyi was in poor health, this was the first time she had encountered her falling ill. Before bedtime, Aunt He had even taken her temperature, and everything had been fine then.
“Don’t worry, dear. Auntie will go find someone. Don’t be afraid.”
Pei Shuyi managed to force a faint smile and nodded toward her.
In the darkness, Aunt He rushed into the rain with an umbrella, stumbling through the muddy path.
As she passed by the neighboring room, the door opened from inside.
“What’s the matter? Why are you in such a hurry?”