The house had never felt so heavy. Every sound — the creak of the stairs, the clink of dishes, even the quiet hum of the wind — seemed to echo louder than it should. Meilin moved through it like a ghost, trying to keep her breathing steady, pretending everything was fine.
But Jiang Rui was not a man easily fooled.
At breakfast, he sat across from her, silent as he stirred his coffee. Xiaoya was chattering between them, trying to bridge the strange distance that had grown again.
"Daddy, Mommy made your favorite eggs today!" she said proudly.
He glanced up, his eyes meeting Meilin's for a brief second. "Did she?" His tone was calm, polite — the kind of calm that hid too much beneath it.
Meilin forced a smile. "I remembered you used to like them that way."
"I did," he said quietly, then added, "used to."
Xiaoya looked between them, confused. "You still like them, right, Daddy?"
Jiang Rui smiled faintly at his daughter, softening just enough. "Of course."
But when Meilin's gaze dropped to his hand, she noticed it — the faint tremor as he set down his cup. He wasn't angry; he was holding something back. Something he didn't want to say in front of their child.
Later that day, after Xiaoya had gone to her room to play, Meilin stood by the window again, staring at the garden. The cherry blossoms had begun to bloom early, pale petals falling softly onto the grass. They looked fragile, fleeting — like everything she was trying to hold together.
She didn't hear Jiang Rui approach until he spoke behind her.
"Was that man here again?"
Her heart stopped. She turned slowly. "What man?"
He crossed his arms. "The one you were speaking to last night."
Her lips parted, but no words came. His eyes — steady, intelligent, unflinching — left no room for lies.
"Rui, please…" she began, but he cut her off gently.
"I'm not accusing you, Meilin. But I need to know what's happening."
The softness in his voice broke something inside her. She wanted to tell him everything — about Li Chen, about the letter, about the fear that kept her awake every night. But the thought of him looking at her with disgust or pity made her chest ache.
"It's nothing," she whispered. "Just someone from the past."
"The past has a way of ruining the present if you keep it hidden," he said quietly.
She turned her face away, tears threatening. "You wouldn't understand."
He stepped closer, stopping just inches away. "Try me."
The words hung between them, trembling like a fragile thread. Meilin wanted to reach out, to let him in, but before she could speak, a loud crash echoed from outside — like glass shattering.
Both of them turned toward the sound.
Jiang Rui rushed to the door while Meilin followed, her heart pounding. When they stepped onto the porch, they saw it — the garden lantern shattered on the ground, pieces glinting in the sunlight. And there, lying beside it, was a cigarette still burning at the edge of the fence.
Jiang Rui bent down, picking it up slowly. His expression darkened.
He turned to her, voice low and sharp. "You said no one was here."
Meilin's lips trembled. "Rui, I—"
He dropped the cigarette and looked at her with quiet disappointment. "I thought we were done with lies."
Then he walked back inside, leaving her standing in the soft drizzle that had begun again.
As the door closed behind him, Meilin pressed her hand against her chest, trying to hold herself together.
Somewhere far off, a familiar figure watched from the shadows — Li Chen, his cigarette glowing faintly like a cruel star in the rain.
> "Let's see how long your perfect family lasts, Meilin," he murmured.