The most valuable thing in Tan Chunyan's life is a pair of hands.
The hand of an ancient book restorer. There are thin calluses on the fingertips, and they can feel the age of the paper pages, and they can stabilize the slightest force. But now these hands are holding the Shen family's engagement agreement, and their knuckles are turning white.
My mother was lying in the ICU, and the bills were like snowflakes. Mr. Shen was seriously ill and was very happy, so the conditions he offered were just enough to keep her alive.
Each takes what he needs. This is what Shen Lidong said.
The man sat across the long table, keeping a distance of two meters from her, and deliberately avoided his fingertips when passing the pen over. His eyes looked like he was reading a consolidated financial report, calm, straightforward, and innocuous. After signing the contract, Tan Chunyan thought, OK, I sold myself for a good price.
Until their wedding night, she accidentally touched the back of his hand.
The man's whole body froze, and his pupils suddenly shrank, as if he had been burned by something. He took a half step back, his Adam's apple rolling, and left without saying a word.
Later she learned that Shen Lidong never let anyone touch him.
Later, she was editing an old Shen family genealogy and found a letter in the middle of a page. The scrawled handwriting on the letter records the past three days and three nights of a seven-year-old boy who was locked in a basement.
She looked back at the man sleeping on the sofa, her brows furrowed as if she was having a nightmare.
Tan Chunyan gently placed her hand on the back of his hand.
His clenched fingers slowly loosened.
