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The door pushed open on a rush of cold air and silence that didn’t break.
Xie Lian stepped in first, his face composed in that careful way that meant something had gone wrong. Behind him Banyue followed, small and rigid, her head down, fists hidden in her sleeves.
She looked as though she’d been wound too tightly and might spring away if anyone spoke too soon.
Hua Cheng straightened from the hearth, where he’d been rubbing oil into the legs of a chair. He wiped his palms on a cloth and looked from one to the other.
“How’d it go?”
Xie Lian didn’t answer right away. He shut the door, keeping his hand on the latch for a moment, as if it might steady him.
His voice, when it came, was even but brittle at the edges.
“It was going well, until…”
He glanced back at Banyue. She was glaring at the floor, jaw set, a flush creeping up her neck.
“-she pushed Meiyun.”
The quiet that followed pressed on the air like a held breath.
Hua Cheng blinked once, unsure he’d heard correctly.
“Pushed?”
Xie Lian nodded, but his lips stayed pressed together, as though every explanation tasted wrong.
“And then tried to hit her.”
That last sentence dropped like a stone. Hua Cheng’s brows pulled together; he straightened from his crouch beside the hearth, cloth still bunched in his hand. For a heartbeat he seemed to search Xie Lian’s face, waiting for a sign that this was a misunderstanding, a child’s accident, something small enough to laugh about, but the look he found there- the thin strain around Xie Lian’s mouth, told him it wasn’t.
Before he could ask more, Banyue burst out, words tumbling over each other.
“No! She’s lying! She’s mean! She- she’s bad-”
Xie Lian raised a hand, the motion calm but final.
“Banyue. We saw what happened.”
“She’s lying!” Banyue’s voice cracked, high with panic. “She’s greedy and bad! I hate her! We- we should throw her away quickly!”
Xie Lian’s patience broke in an instant.
“Enough!”
The word cut sharp through the air; even Hua Cheng flinched at the sound of it.
“We are not throwing anyone away,” he said, each word clipped clean. “Meiyun and her parents are part of our family. Do you understand? What you did today was bad, and it hurts me to hear you speak like this.”
The silence that followed had weight. The fire crackled once, a low reminder of how still the room had become.
Banyue’s chin jerked up, eyes wide and glassy. The bravado that had carried her this far cracked all at once.
“I’m not bad!” she cried. Her voice wobbled between anger and something smaller, more frightened. “I’m good! She’s bad! You just like her better than me!”
The accusation landed like a blow.
Xie Lian opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The edges of his frustration slipped away as quickly as they’d come, leaving only the hollow ache of shock. He looked as though someone had reached into his chest and pulled something loose.
Hua Cheng’s voice cut through the tight silence, low enough that it didn’t sound like interruption, just the sound of ground returning under their feet.
“Gege.”
The single word was enough. Xie Lian blinked, breath catching, as if he’d been pulled up from under water. Hua Cheng took a slow step forward, but not between them- just enough that his shadow reached the child.
He knew that look in Banyue’s eyes. He’d felt it play across his own face countless times before he died; the wild, cornered stare of someone convinced that care was a ration and she’d already used hers up.
Her small chest heaved- the tears only made her angrier, not softer.
He lowered himself until he was nearer her height, knees folding easily, his elbows resting loosely on them.
“Hey,” he said, quiet. “Breathe.”
But Banyue only shook her head, hair flying, and stumbled backward until she hit the wall.
“I hate her!” she shouted, the words coming out raw, too big for her lungs. “I hate everyone!”
And then she bolted- her bare feet slapping against the boards and then, the door to her room slammed shut hard enough to make the jars on the shelves rattle.
Xie Lian was moving before the echo had died.
“Banyue-”
He took two quick steps, but Hua Cheng’s hand closed gently around his wrist. The pressure wasn’t firm; it didn’t need to be.
“Give her a little time.”
Xie Lian turned, eyes bright with shock and remorse.
“She’ll think we’re angry.”
Hua Cheng kept his voice low and even, the way one speaks near a sleeping child.
“She already thinks you are. Right now she needs quiet, not another in her head. Let her breathe.”
Xie Lian’s shoulders sagged. He pressed a palm to his temple as if it hurt.
“She’s never acted like this before.”
“She has,” Hua Cheng said, gaze fixed on the closed door. “Just not where we could see it. It’s what happens when a child’s learned that love can vanish.”
The line hung there, half explanation, half confession- the only sound between them now was the slow pop of the fire. After a moment, Xie Lian nodded once and sank onto the edge of the table, rubbing at the fabric of his sleeve.
Hua Cheng stayed standing, eyes still on the door, already thinking of what words might reach her when the storm inside her finally quieted.
~~~
The small room was more shadow than light. The glow from the hearth reached only partway through the doorway, fading into a dim pool around the low bed.
Banyue was a small knot beneath her blanket, back turned, shoulders trembling every few breaths with leftover sobs.
Hua Cheng knocked once, quietly, and eased the door open.
“Banyue.”
She jolted upright, wiping her face with the edge of the blanket. The apology tumbled out in a rush.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I won’t- please don’t be-”
Then she saw who it was and the words stopped. Her eyes went wide, the fright sharp and immediate as she clutched the blanket tighter.
“Where’s Xie-ge?”
Hua Cheng stayed just inside the doorway, leaning against the frame so the boards wouldn’t creak.
“He’s in the other room,” he said. “He wanted to come check on you, but I told him to rest.”
Her gaze flicked toward the window, then back to him, wary. Her hands twisted the edge of the blanket, ready to run but not moving yet.
Hua Cheng shifted his weight and, after taking a few steps closer, let himself sink to the floor. The boards creaked softly beneath him as he crossed his legs, resting his forearms loosely on his knees, making sure his movements were slow and easy to follow.
“You can breathe, kid,” he said, his tone even and casual. “No one’s angry right now.”
Banyue didn’t reply. Her eyes darted to him, then to the open door behind him, never meeting his gaze directly.
He let the quiet linger for a few heartbeats before speaking again, his voice softer this time, more to the room at large than to her.
“I remember what it feels like,” he said. “When you think the next raised voice means you’re about to get hit or kicked out.”
Her head lifted a fraction. She didn’t say anything, but her breathing changed- less sharp and more cautious. She could tell he wasn’t talking to her anymore, he was remembering.
Hua Cheng’s mouth tilted into something like a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“When I was your size,” he said, “I used to sleep with a rock in my hand. Thought if I kept my fist closed tight enough, nobody could take what was mine. I’d throw it at anyone who came too close- dogs, other kids- whoever looked at me wrong.”
Banyue’s lip wobbled. “Did it work?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. It worked. For a time.” He let the words hang there, simple and blunt. “It had to. Back then I didn’t have anyone. It was me, a wall for a pillow, and a house that didn’t care whether I froze or woke up again.”
She frowned, uncertain if that counted as a victory. He watched her think, then added, quieter now, “You don’t need to do that.”
Her brow creased again. “How do you know?”
“Because you’ve got him,” he said, tilting his head back towards the open door, his voice softening without losing its grit. “And your Xie-ge’s got me. If anyone in this world needs a rock thrown, I’ll do it. I’m better at it anyway.”
That startled a small, breathless laugh out of her, half a hiccup. The fear in her shoulders loosened a little.
Hua Cheng’s grin softened into something smaller, more thoughtful.
“But trust me, kid,” he said. “Meiyun’s not a threat to you.”
Banyue sniffled and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “She’s greedy,” she muttered.
Hua Cheng tilted his head. “Maybe,” he said, almost agreeing.
His acceptance seemed to hit her harder than he expected and Banyue’s eyes went shiny again, her mouth twisting as she tried to hold everything in.
He paused for a moment, watching the tears spill over, watched her swipe them away with the heel of her hand, angry at herself for crying.
When he finally spoke again, his voice had changed- still steady, but quieter, as if the words themselves needed gentler handling.
“Most people you meet in life,” he said, “have hearts like empty bowls. They guard what’s inside, because if they give too much away, there’s nothing left. They’ve got to choose who gets a piece.”
Banyue frowned, still sniffling, the idea puzzling her more than comforting her. Hua Cheng didn’t rush her. He let the silence stretch until she stopped fidgeting with the blanket and looked up again.
He tapped his chest lightly. “But your Xie-ge’s not built like that. He’s a well. You pour more in, and it just gets deeper.”
Her breathing hitched, and she blinked hard as he went on.
“Every time he meets someone new,” Hua Cheng said, “every time he finds another person to care about, his heart makes more room. It doesn’t run out.”
Banyue’s lip trembled; her small hands twisted the blanket in her lap. “But… then why did he look so mad?”
“Because he’s scared,” Hua Cheng said. He waited for her eyes to lift before finishing, his voice low but sure. “Because he wants to teach you better than what the world taught us. That’s all.”
He let the quiet gather again, steady and warm, before adding, “You don't have to throw rocks to keep him. He’ll never stop loving you.”
Banyue sat very still, her eyes red and swollen, the blanket bunched around her knees. The sound of the hearth in the next room filled the silence between them, a soft, constant breath.
After a while, Hua Cheng shifted his weight, leaning back on his hands. His tone changed- lighter again, though the gentleness didn’t leave it entirely.
“Meiyun’s a good kid,” he said. “Your Xie-ge loves her, sure. He loves half the world on a good day.”
Banyue’s face crumpled into a small scowl, suspicious of where this was going.
Hua Cheng gave a short, amused hum, one corner of his mouth twitching.
“Doesn’t change the fact that she’s a greedy kid,” he agreed. “She’s got two good parents who love her, and she still gets to be special to your Xie-ge on top of that.”
Banyue’s eyes welled again, her lip trembling. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers tightened on the blanket, her knuckles pale.
Hua Cheng tipped his head a little, his voice dropping lower. “Some people just get to be greedy,” he said. “That’s how the world works. But you know what’s different?”
She looked up warily. “What?”
“We’re the ones who live in his house,” Hua Cheng said. The faint smile returned, but it was softer now, almost proud. “We’re the ones who see him every day. That’s ours. No one takes that.”
Banyue’s shoulders eased, the stubborn line of her mouth beginning to waver. She stared at him for a long moment, as if testing whether she believed him, and then the fight drained out all at once. The next breath came out shaky but softer than before.
“I don’t want to fight,” she whispered.
“Good,” Hua Cheng said. His voice stayed light, but the relief in it was real. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Then don’t.”
She nodded, tiny and tired, clutching the blanket to her chest. He gave her one last look- enough to make sure her breathing had evened out again- then pushed himself to his feet.
When he reached the door, he left it open behind him, letting the warm light from the hearth spill across the floor, stretching toward the small bundle on the bed.
“Come out when you’re ready,” he said, voice drifting back through the doorway. “Dinner’s almost done.”
Banyue didn’t answer right away. She sat there listening to the crackle of the fire and the faint sounds of movement from the other room.
Then, quietly, almost to herself, she murmured,
“Ours.”
The word hung in the half-dark like a small spell, fragile but certain.