Being needed is a joy, like a lamp lit in rain.
Humans are pack creatures. Even if the World holds those who fancy solitude, the moment you notice the word “lonely,” you’re already pushing it away.
Because those truly devoted to solitude don’t feel “alone,” like fish deep in a quiet lake.
Hard to grasp?
It’s like someone steeped in happiness. They never think being needed is worth bragging. Only when a sudden blow shatters the calm do they jolt awake.
But.
Being needed is worth rejoicing—it doesn’t mean not being needed is sad.
Sadness hangs on you, not on other eyes.
If you truly love being by yourself, and feel at ease like a fish in water, then be alone.
Yet life rarely behaves so cleanly, like mist that won’t clear.
You think you chase solitude because you like it.
In truth, you keep company with solitude because you had to.
In a crowd, you feel ill at ease, cramped, almost suffocated—so you flee, alone, and lick your wounds like a stray under an eave.
To dodge ridicule, you paste on a smile, or go cold, pretending—
“I’m just unconventional.”
“I just like being by myself.”
“It’s not like staying together equals happiness.”
“I prefer being apart.”
“There’s nothing wrong with loving solitude.”
Indeed, there’s nothing wrong with loving solitude.
But only if it’s your choice, and it makes you happy.
Not because the atmosphere boxed you in, like walls closing in.
…
…
Why—
“Why did this pop into my head?”
Ye Weibai stepped out of the taxi, a black umbrella above him.
He cut off the rambling thoughts on “solitude” that the cramped ride had stirred.
Tap.
Khaki boots splashed beads of water over the white slabs of the walkway.
The drizzle whispered, small yet nagging.
He breathed in the chill of early autumn rain, tugged his jacket tighter, and drifted toward his three‑story cottage.
He soon understood what had set his mind wandering.
He lived in an upscale complex. Back when the district was still bare, he’d snagged a small villa with a ten‑square‑meter yard at a low price.
And she stood at the gate of that yard.
A clear white umbrella; raindrops rolled like pearls.
A washed‑out schoolbag bulged with who‑knows‑what.
A black tee felt a shade late for the season; blue jeans were tight, sketching the slim lines of her legs like willow branches.
The umbrella had long since grown old, tiny holes dotting its canopy.
Drops pooled, then slipped through, some spattering her ponytail, more running like a small stream down the white handle to her right hand.
“Hey.”
Hearing the voice, the girl hadn’t even turned when a black shadow fell over her.
Ye Weibai’s umbrella was big; maybe the kid was thin, and the canopy swallowed her whole like a night cloud.
“Uncle.”
She glanced up at him; the string in her shoulders loosened; her voice came soft, like a reed in rain.
“What are you doing here, Shaohan?”
She was only in her first year of middle school, yet she was almost to his chest. She really took after her dad. Just…
“Couldn’t find the key.”
“Idiot.” He rolled his eyes, reached to ruffle her hair, and she flinched away like a skittish cat.
He didn’t mind; he drew back his hand without a hitch.
“My place isn’t No. 79.”
He gestured for her to follow, then stopped after two or three steps.
“Seventy‑five is mine. Didn’t you say you knew?”
“I… remembered wrong.”
“Last time we saw each other was three, maybe four years ago; not remembering is normal. But—you could’ve called me.”
She was silent a moment, then said, “Anyway, if I waited a bit, you’d come back, Uncle.”
“Sick. What’s there to wait for? If I worked late till midnight, would you stand here all night?”
He stood under the awning and waved his hand. “It’s raining and you’re dressed thin. Didn’t Grandpa tell you to wear more?”
“When I left… it wasn’t this cold.”
“Yeah? Ever heard of checking the forecast? If you get sick, your grandpa will skin me alive.”
“…Okay.”
“You’ve got no worries, huh.”
He opened the door and stepped into the foyer, and reached for her backpack. She tensed; clear eyes flickered; she stepped back to say she’d carry it herself.
“Tch. I show a little courtesy and you actually refuse. Fine, suit yourself; I’m not really here to babysit.”
He changed into slippers, strolled into the living room, flopped onto the soft sofa, clicked on the TV, and poured himself tea.
Only then did he look toward the door.
Shaohan still stood there with her backpack; her hair and hem were dripping like rain‑dark threads.
“What are you spacing out for?” he said. “Shut the door, it’s cold.”
“Okay.”
She closed the door, and kept standing.
Ye Weibai couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “Shaohan—you—”
She lifted her face and met his gaze, eyes clear as moonlit spring water.
“Forget it.” He waved a hand. “First room on the left upstairs is yours. Unpack, and the bathroom’s inside. Decide if you want a shower first.”
“Mm.”
She hitched the heavy bag, crossed the space between table and TV, and thumped up the stairs like small drums.
Only when her slightly laborious figure slipped past the landing did his impatience ease, like wind thinning after a squall.
He sipped tea; bitterness rose; thoughts began to turn, rippling like dark leaves in a cup.
Bai Shaohan…
Bai Ye’s elder brother, Bai Rong’s child.
This thorny kid… no wonder she is like this; her family maze twists far beyond most.
I knew it was bad, yet it’s worse than three years ago.
…
…
