After a pause of about two seconds, Shen Yu turned his head slightly and tapped the screen with one long finger. The next round began.

Lin Xun swallowed the last mouthful of fermented rice wine from her bowl. “No, work’s been pretty hectic. Haven’t met the right person.”

The old woman’s gaze softened further at that. Before leaving, she pressed a jar of chili sauce and a container of fermented rice wine into Lin Xun’s hands for her to take home: “All homemade, nothing fancy, but the flavor’s decent. That braised pork ribs you liked so much today? That’s the chili sauce right there.”

Lin Xun touched her nose.

Caught.

She had to admit she’d helped herself to rather a lot of those ribs.

“Thank you, Grandma. I’ll come visit again soon.”

Old Grandma Jiang smiled until her eyes were nearly shut, and patted Lin Xun’s hair. “Good girl. Come by often, all right?”

The old kettle let out a sharp whistle right on cue, boiling water gurgling and spitting over the rim. The old woman bustled off toward the kitchen. “Xiao Yu, see Xiao Lin out for me.”

Shen Yu gave a small nod, rose, and walked Lin Xun to the door. He reached up with one long arm and lifted her canvas bag down from the hook.

Lin Xun reached out to take it. He didn’t let go. Instead, with a pull in the opposite direction, the strap tightened and the lettering on the bag distorted slightly.

Lin Xun looked up, puzzled, and found him already looking down.

Perhaps because he couldn’t see that her face was barely two fists from his, his expression stayed even, unhurried.

Lin Xun held her breath on instinct and took a small step back.

This close, she could actually see his eyes clearly. The color of his irises was much lighter than most people’s. She didn’t know whether the injury had changed them or whether he’d always been this way.

They were like two brown glass marbles filmed over with dust, the shine gone from them, set at the center of thick dark lashes. You couldn’t help wanting to reach out and wipe them clean.

She turned her head and gave her bag another tug, signaling him to let go.

The hallway was narrow. The light was a warm amber yellow. Outside, the city hummed and glittered, and the damp, warm summer night was only just beginning.

Those pale, pretty eyes narrowed slightly. His long, curled lashes cast a shadow on his fair cheek like the teeth of a fine-toothed comb.

His expression held a faint, sardonic amusement. When he spoke, his voice was as lovely as ever, though flat and unhurried: “We sat one row apart for over a year. What, you’ve forgotten me already?”

“……”

Two seconds later, Lin Xun raised both hands and clapped them sharply in front of his nose, watching to see if his pupils would react.

Had his vision come back? Was he faking?

How else had he recognized her?

It couldn’t be her voice. They hadn’t seen each other in eight or nine years, and even his voice, one in ten million, practically the reincarnation of a nightingale, had nearly slipped her memory. Hers certainly wouldn’t have stuck with him.

Lin Xun had always been drawn to beautiful voices, which made it all the more unfortunate that her own was thoroughly unremarkable. Not unpleasant, exactly, just unmemorable.

Cheng Meng was a different story. She’d been active in online cover-song circles since high school, and by now had nearly twenty thousand followers on Weibo.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Those amber pupils, however, didn’t flinch or flicker at her sudden scare.

What replaced any reaction was the slow drop of his brow.

Shen Yu pressed a hand to the ear she’d just assaulted with sound, and said flatly: “……I’m blind, not deaf.”

Lin Xun gave up struggling for the bag. She studied him for a full half-minute with great deliberateness, then said, perfectly composed: “Oh……right, it’s you. Shen Yu. Long time no see. The light in there was too dim, and you’re too tall. I just couldn’t make out your face.”

She’d been in screenwriting for years and had read through more scripts than she could count. That little speech was the most obviously made-up thing she’d heard in a while.

But Boss Lin had a thick skin. When she was making things up, her tone was unshakeable.

Even that small note of surprise was calibrated to exactly the right degree.

“……”

Shen Yu raised his eyes. His gaze drifted toward her face, vague and indeterminate, as though trying to feel through the dark for any trace of a blush. After a long moment, he let go, returned the canvas bag, and offered a sincere compliment: “……Good eyes.”

Lin Xun accepted the praise without a flicker of shame. “You flatter me. But I’m a little curious. How did you know it was me? Aren’t you blind?”

Young Master Shen gave a faint pull of the lips. The expression said, plainly enough: can you be any more dense.

“Same answer as before. I’m blind, not deaf. Surname Lin, from Qingyuan, both parents gone, scholarship student, living with Grandma and no one else. Who else is that unfortunate?”

Lin Xun came to a slow realization.

He’d been listening the whole time. Grandma had lobbed question after question, plied her with fermented rice wine, and somewhere in all of that, Lin Xun had given herself away completely without noticing.

But once she got home, a new question surfaced.

Poverty scholarship status was posted publicly for the class. Everything else, she’d never told him.

So how did he know?

Unless… Cheng Meng had mentioned something, back when she used to stop by her desk?

After seeing Lin Xun off, Shen Yu came back to the kitchen doorway, crossed his arms, and leaned against the frame.

“Why are you just bringing strangers home to eat? You’re not worried she could be dangerous? Don’t look at me. I’m not much use in a fight.”

Grandma Jiang knew perfectly well he couldn’t see her, but she rolled her eyes at him anyway. “A young girl, pretty as that, with a good heart. How could she be dangerous?”

“I had my little stall out at the front gate for two weeks. Xiao Lin came every day to buy scallions. Said soaking scallions in water was good for the skin. Anyone could see through that. She just felt sorry for an old woman her age having to stand outside selling things to…” she paused, “…support an ungrateful wretch.”

She got to that part and laughed, showing a full row of neat false teeth. “And truly a ‘white-eyed wolf’ at that. Calling you an ingrate isn’t even a metaphor anymore.”

Shen Yu had been quiet up to that point, but the longer he listened the more absurd it got. “Who’s supporting whom?” he said, with some edge. “I bought this apartment, and paid twice what it was worth. And she bought you over with a few scallions, and you turned around and threw in a jar of chili sauce and a container of fermented rice wine. You keep running a business like that and you’ll be broke.”

Grandma Jiang tucked the leftovers into the refrigerator and shot him another look. “Did I ever ask you to buy me a flat? Did the chili sauce come out of your pocket?”

“Money, money, money. I run my little stall because it makes me happy, and if I feel like losing money on it, that’s my business. My pension’s enough. Mind your own. I think those years of being poor scared you straight into the money pile. Here you are, a big boss now, still tight as a drum. You’re getting more and more like that miserly father of yours.”

Grandma had been sharp-tongued since she was young, and she didn’t soften when she went after people. That said, her grandson gave as good as he got. The two of them usually ended in a draw.

This time, though, after she finished, the room went oddly quiet behind her.

She turned. Shen Yu was still leaning in the doorway, head tilted to one side, his eyes flat and empty, mouth pressed into a straight line.

Not a trace of humor on his face.

She paused, just about to say something, when she saw him drop his crossed arms and turn away without a word, back perfectly straight as he walked off.

Well. She’d pushed that one too far.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The next morning, Lin Xun got up planning to make instant noodles.

Following her usual habit, she transferred yesterday’s scallions into a vase of fresh water. Two weeks in, she’d accumulated a full, lush little cluster of them. Stubborn things. All they needed was water and they thrived, so green they looked like they might drip.

Not that she had much use for them.

Lin Xun couldn’t cook.

Cooking took talent, and whatever her grandmother had, she hadn’t inherited it.

When her grandmother was still alive, she could take scraps, chicken necks, duck feet, pork liver, beef tripe, and turn them into something extraordinary. Their barbecue stall never lacked for customers.

But these past few years, living alone, Lin Xun ate nothing but takeout or instant noodles.

She had money in her pocket now, but her appetite and quality of life had quietly declined year by year. Eating had become routine maintenance, something you did to keep the body running.

She watched the curled noodles tumbling in the pot and felt, suddenly, no desire to eat them.

Her mind went back to last night’s dinner without permission. Three dishes and a soup: braised pork ribs in chili sauce, stir-fried rapeseed greens, garlic stems with pork, and a tomato tofu soup.

Her throat tightened slightly. She opened the refrigerator, took out the chili sauce Grandma Jiang had given her, and spooned two large dollops into the pot. Then she pulled a scallion from the vase, rinsed it, and dropped it in.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ⊰ ⊹ ─

She got to the studio just after nine.

“Nightingale” ran on flexible hours with no clock-in requirement, so at this time of day only two or three people were in. Tang Huan was in the conference room on a call with some investor, her voice loud and assured enough that you’d think she was the one with the money.

One of the studio’s post-production editors, Li Chiyue, was sitting at his computer with headphones on, focused. He glanced up when she came in and gave a brief wave. “Boss.”

Lin Xun made a sound of acknowledgment and settled at her desk, opening her computer.

Zhou Zhou hadn’t arrived yet, but his email had.

The night before, he’d written to the drama audio department at Ruili, inviting their voice actor Yuanshan to join their new project.

Ruili had responded that morning. The schedule worked, and their rate was surprisingly reasonable.

Lin Xun felt pleased at how smoothly it had gone, and puzzled at the same time.

They’d never worked with Ruili before. A company that size, she’d always assumed the costs would be out of reach for a small operation like theirs.

The rate they’d come back with was lower than some freelancers.

It seemed she’d been making assumptions.

She thought it over, called Zhou Zhou, and asked him to reach out to Teacher Yuanshan to arrange a time to come in for a voice test.

Before noon, Zhou Zhou called back.

“Boss, Ruili says Teacher Yuanshan is in Zhoushan right now and is free this afternoon. Can we do two o’clock?”

Lin Xun had just finished reviewing the first four scripts. She checked her watch. Eleven forty.

“Works for me. Tell them to meet us at the studio booth.”

“Yeah,” Zhou Zhou said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “I honestly figured it was a long shot when I reached out. I mean, this is Teacher Yuanshan we’re talking about. Maybe not A-list by film and TV standards, but in the audio drama and audiobook world? Genuinely impressive. I didn’t think Ruili would actually say yes, let alone at a rate like that!”

“And his voice. I love it so much. Cool and smooth, a little numbing, works sweet or sharp. It’s so good it makes my ears pregnant!”

“……”

Was this really something people just said now?

Lin Xun pulled the corner of her mouth. “Forget your ears. None of your other parts have that function either.”