After listening, Dr. Zhang remained silent for a long time.
Then he said one sentence: “Mr. Lu, you are not sick. You were hurt when you were young, and you still haven’t healed.”
At that time, he wanted to say “I’m fine,” but the words wouldn’t come out.
Because he remembered that Shen Luning had said something similar.
Back then, they had just gotten together. One night, he had cried out in nightmares all night long. When he woke up, he found her sitting by the bed, holding his hand, her eyes red.
“Lu Sihan,” she said, “did you suffer a lot when you were little?”
He didn’t answer.
“It’s okay,” she gently stroked his hair, “I’ll take care of you from now on.”
I’ll take care of you from now on.
He remembered those words for five years.
Lu Sihan opened his eyes.
He looked out the car window and saw the curtains on the sixth floor move slightly.
It wasn’t the wind—someone had used a finger to pull them apart a crack, glanced outside, and quickly closed them again.
It was her.
He suddenly felt like crying.
Not because he was sad, but because she was still there.
She was still behind those curtains. She hadn’t fled overnight. She was still there.
“President Lu,” the driver spoke again, his voice sounding a bit strange this time, “someone is coming over.”
Lu Sihan straightened up.
A small figure emerged from the building entrance.
It was Xiao Niangao.
He was wearing the same pajamas from yesterday—blue stripes with a whale printed on the chest—and anti-slip slippers on his feet. In his left hand, he held a small plastic bag, and in his right, a carton of milk. His expression was serious.
He walked straight to the black SUV and knocked on the rear window.
Lu Sihan was even a little dazed—the way he knocked was exactly the same as his own.
He frantically rolled down the window, moving so quickly that he didn’t even feel the pain when his fingers got pinched by the glass.
Xiao Niangao looked up at him.
Up close, the child looked even more like him.
Not just the eyes and nose, but his entire demeanor—quiet like a still pond, neither restless nor showy.
“Uncle,” Xiao Niangao raised the plastic bag in his hand, “these are Band-Aids, Winnie the Pooh ones. Mom said if you’re bleeding, you should put on a Band-Aid.”
Lu Sihan lowered his head and looked at the small plastic bag.
Winnie the Pooh Band-Aids.
He reached out with both hands to take it, his hands trembling.
“And this.” Xiao Niangao handed over the milk. “This milk is about to expire. Mom said we shouldn’t waste it.”
Lu Sihan took the milk.
About to expire?
He looked at the date on the bottom of the carton—it wouldn’t expire for another three days.
Xiao Niangao blinked, a very subtle movement that would have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t been watching closely.
“Thank you,” Lu Sihan said, his voice hoarse.
“You’re welcome.”
Xiao Niangao put his hands in his pajama pockets and tilted his head, studying him.
“You…” Lu Sihan wanted to say something but didn’t know what.
He had so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask. He wanted to tell this child, “I am your father.” He wanted to ask him, “Have you been well these past five years?” He wanted to ask, “Has your mother ever said bad things about me in front of you?” He wanted to ask, “Do you like me?”
But all the words were stuck in his throat, unable to come out.
In the end, he said, “Have you had breakfast?”
Xiao Niangao gave him a look that seemed to say, “What kind of nonsense is this?”
“My mom is making it for me right now—a sunny-side-up egg.”
“A sunny-side-up egg?”
“It has to be round, and it can’t be broken.”
Lu Sihan nodded, etching this information into his mind.
Round, can’t be broken—he remembered.
“Uncle,” Xiao Niangao suddenly asked, “does your neck still hurt?”
Lu Sihan instinctively touched his neck.
The wound from last night had stopped bleeding, but the skin was still torn, stinging when touched.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Xiao Niangao looked at him, his gaze lingering on his face for a while, as if judging whether he was telling the truth or lying.
“You’re lying,” Xiao Niangao said. “Your hand trembled just now when you touched it.”
Lu Sihan opened his mouth, realizing he was utterly defenseless in front of this five-year-old child.
“Uncle,” Xiao Niangao spoke again, his voice suddenly lowering, “why were you kneeling at the door last night?”
Lu Sihan fell silent for a few seconds.
How should he answer?
Tell a five-year-old child, “Because I hurt your mom,” “Because I wanted to beg for her forgiveness,” “Because I love her so much I’m going crazy”?
He thought for a moment and chose the simplest answer: “Because I wanted to see your mom.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Lu Sihan froze.
Xiao Niangao’s eyes were bright.
“Uncle, do you want to pursue my mom?”
Lu Sihan tightened his grip on the Winnie the Pooh band-aid in his hand.
“Yes,” he said.
Xiao Niangao nodded, his expression seeming to say, “I already knew.”
Then he said something Lu Sihan would never forget for the rest of his life.
“Uncle, pursuing my mom is very hard.”
Xiao Niangao counted on his fingers, “First, she doesn’t eat Western food; it upsets her stomach. Second, she doesn’t like people giving her flowers; she says flowers wither, and it makes her sad to see. Third, she hates people who are late; if you’re late, she’ll ignore you. Fourth, she needs to drink a cup of warm water before bed—too cold or too hot won’t do. Fifth…”
“Fifth?” Lu Sihan almost instinctively pressed.
Xiao Niangao looked up at him, his dark grape-like eyes reflecting his face.
“Fifth,” Xiao Niangao said, “when she cries, don’t ask her why she’s crying. Just hold her and say nothing.”
Lu Sihan’s hand clenched tightly.
“…How do you know all this?”
“Because that’s what I do every time Mom cries.”
Xiao Niangao’s tone was light. “She stops crying after a while.”
He said “every time”—every time Mom cried.
Lu Sihan’s heart felt as if someone had grabbed it and twisted it hard.
“Every time”—the phrase was like a knife, cutting into him again and again.
How many “every times” had he missed?
When she cried alone in her room, who comforted her? This five-year-old child.
His son, Lu Sihan’s son.
“Does your mom… cry often?” he asked.
Xiao Niangao thought for a moment.
“Not often, but sometimes she does.”
“When?”
“Sometimes when she sees people getting married on TV, she cries. Sometimes when she sees an old couple holding hands and walking on the street, she cries. Sometimes…”
Xiao Niangao paused. “Sometimes she looks at her phone and starts crying.”
Lu Sihan knew what she was looking at.
It was their past.
It was those old news articles that had already been deleted but still lingered online, about “Lu Group’s CEO Lu Sihan seen out late at night with a mysterious woman.”
“Uncle,” Xiao Niangao suddenly asked a question that caught him off guard, “did you do something wrong to my mom?”