When they first met, he was her best friend’s uncle.
The room was full of laughter and commotion, but he sat alone behind a carved sandalwood table, laying out rice paper, the cuffs of his pale-moon shirt neatly rolled to his forearms.
Rong Ying pulled her behind her and whispered, “This is my uncle.” But she peeked out over her friend’s shoulder, captivated by his gentleness.
Later, the Rong family became her shelter from the storm.
He taught her how to hold a brush and told her, “Hide your stroke as you begin, and leave space as you finish.”
Whenever she was bullied, he was always there to stand up for her. He was the best elder she could have asked for.
On a summer night during her university years, he whispered in Shu Zhao’s ear, “Zhaozhao, wait for me.”
She buried her face in his shirt, not understanding what he meant by “wait for me.”
The next morning, all that remained beside her pillow was the wolf-hair brush engraved with her name. Rong Mochi had vanished from her world.
They would be apart for five years.
She grew tired of waiting.
Five years later, at the Rong family’s birthday banquet, Shu Zhao wore a cool-toned black dress. When she saw him, she didn’t even glance his way, focusing only on putting food in Rong Ying’s bowl.
Someone teased, “Zhaozhao and Mochi are still so distant.” She raised her wineglass with a smile, her eyes betraying no emotion. “We’re not close.”
Sitting opposite her, Rong Mochi leaned over and clasped her wrist. His smile was lazy, but his grip was firm.
“Not close?”
“Then how about we get close again?”
A secret-pregnancy-and-run story / protective devotion planned in advance / groveling pursuit of his wife
