Everyone knows this world sells no medicine for regret, no bitter draught to rewind a day.

When facts set like stone won’t shift, you can only strike the present and try to break the game.

It wasn’t even a divorce; they’d never owned a home, just borrowed roofs like bird nests on wires.

When even their cold war cracked like thin ice, they chose to cut the line like a frayed kite string.

The woman didn’t take Shaohan; she left before dawn, a shadow slipping out without goodbye.

Before she went, she knelt by the bed and whispered to her child, words heavy like damp stones.

She thought Shaohan slept; she watched that calm face like a moon, and poured out what children shouldn’t hear.

But the wind in the room said otherwise.

Her guess wasn’t wrong; Shaohan was as usual, but her usual was wakefulness, a watchfire that never went out.

When did it start, this sleepless drift like leaves caught on a gutter?

Early on, Shaohan’s sleep went shallow, quick to startle, ever since the couple across the wall began to fight at dawn.

Voices clashed like knives; sometimes glass rang and fell, then screams and hoarse thunder rolled.

That symphony of cold violence played daily, and lately peaked, a storm no child could sleep through.

Rarely, this morning came quiet as snow; she woke as usual, burrowed under her quilt like a shell, hands plugging her ears.

Only after a long hush did she poke out her head, a shy bird, and let thin joy ripple in her chest.

Did they… make peace, the way rain smooths dust?

However, the woman who entered the next heartbeat shattered that fragile dream like glass.

“I’m so tired, Shaohan,” she said, her voice frayed like old cloth.

“Mom’s so tired,” she said, like rain soaking into bones.

“It’s hard carrying you,” she said, heavy as a wet quilt.

“Mom can’t endure anymore,” she whispered, the rope in her hands already splitting.

She sighed, a thin wind from a cracked reed.

“If I’d known, I shouldn’t have gone to that neon bar,” she said, “I wouldn’t have met your father.”

“And then—I wouldn’t—have given birth to you,” she said, the words dropping like stones.

“But we can’t go back,” she said, bridges behind them burned to ash.

“So—so—Mom can only leave,” she said, a bird fleeing frost.

“Sorry,” she said, the word thin as paper.

“Turns out, just like your father said, I should’ve aborted you back then,” she said, like cutting a bud before it leafed.

Bang.

In that instant, a porcelain piece inside the girl shattered into dust, a kiln broken beyond repair.

...

...

What came after wasn’t much of a story, just gray rain seeping day by day.

Still hustling alone, Bai Rong had to take the child back to his hometown, handing her to the old father like a parcel.

Three days, no more; under his father’s complicated gaze, Bai Rong fled like a stray dog, diving back into the city.

Leaving, he didn’t dare turn his head, didn’t dare look into Shaohan’s eyes, a coward beneath neon.

If he had turned, he would have seen Shaohan’s pupils, black glazed with ash, like burnt stars.

Back in the city, he soon let busy days wipe the slate, or did it on purpose, like a man rinsing blood from his hands.

This time luck favored him; he met another woman, good in face and family, like a lantern held high.

With her help, his knack for trade unfurled; he flipped goods and rode the tide, and money layered like sediment.

Soon he had a company, a hundred-square-meter apartment, and a car fat with shine that hooked eyes on the street.

The woman became his wife, then bore him a cute boy, a bud in spring light.

The three formed a perfect circle, a smooth coin without scratch.

Only outside that circle, someone was pushed out like an extra shadow.

...

...

Ding-dong—the doorbell chimed, a silver drop striking air.

“Probably the takeout,” Ye Weibai said, chin lifting like a flag, and he sent the girl to fetch it.

“Okay,” Shaohan said, the word small as a seed.

She stood to go, but darkness washed over her eyes, and she lurched toward the table with the steaming kettle.

Even cool-as-frost Shaohan went pale at that sudden fall, and she shut her eyes like a startled bird.

The next breath brought arms around her, and a curl of smoke and a man’s scent settled like fog.

“Kid, my tea set’s pricey,” Ye Weibai murmured at her ear, his tone playful as a smirk, “break it and you can’t pay.”

He held her up, looked from behind, and patted her thin back, tender as paper over bone.

“Your body’s too weak,” he said, smoke thread curling, “does Grandpa not let you eat meat?”

Another girl might’ve cried on the spot, tears threading like beads.

But Shaohan recovered fast; she pushed free, thorn-prick firm, and said, “I don’t like meat.”

“Perfect,” Ye Weibai said with a laugh bright as steel, “I ordered a big plate of braised chicken; you’ll eat it.”

“With your uncle, you don’t get your way,” he added, smoke curling like a ribbon. “I love making people do what they dislike. Hey, where are you going?”

“For the takeout,” the girl said, voice soft but stubborn like a sapling, “I’m fine.”

Ye Weibai fell quiet and let her go, a shrug drifting like smoke.

Soon she came back, both arms around a bag bigger than her head, wobbling like a small boat.

To be honest, the load was heavy.

Ye Weibai had spent the day in the office, reading files and sparring with Mu Ling, hunger biting like a dog.

A slip of the finger had ordered too many dishes; steam would soon bloom like clouds.

Before he could speak, the girl’s eyes pinned him—“I can do it”—eyes hard as flint.

He kept his hands to himself; if she insisted on handling it alone, he’d oblige, quiet as a closed fan.

Even then, his gaze dropped to the TV remote fallen earlier, lying quiet on her path like a flat stone.

“If fate wants to be that neat,” Ye Weibai thought, smoke cooled in his chest, “show me the truth behind your stubbornness.”

Sometimes fate loves cheap theater, tossing the same pie at the same face.

For the unlucky, misfortune pecks at every crumb like a crow, never full.

Arms trembling, the girl never saw what lay underfoot; her step landed on the remote, and balance slid away like ice.

She went down, and he watched it all as if through clear water, unmoving.

He could have stopped it; he could have saved it; he didn’t, a stone under calm water.

He simply stood there and watched the mishap; the takeout toppled, and her shadow swallowed the falling food like night.

Steam and broth burst from the boxes and sprayed, still midair, then the falling girl’s shadow ate them whole.

Thunk!

Elbows, knees, and brow struck cold tile, a sound like bones knocking on winter.

It must hurt, knives hiding beneath snow.

Falling full-length into the scattered meal, she seemed more ragged than wounded, like a swallow in spilt soup.

Ye Weibai watched Shaohan on the floor; whether from pain or heat, her face went white, and sweat beaded like rain.

Bits of leaf and rice stuck to her skin; she tried to rise, but her strength frayed, and she nearly fell again.

Ye Weibai didn’t reach out; he watched her struggle, calm as a winter lake.

“Don’t move!” Shaohan said, catching Ye Weibai’s cold gaze, panic flashing like a trapped bird, “I’ll do it myself!”

Those words came on hissing breaths, pain rasping like sand in the throat.

Ye Weibai smiled, with no warmth at all, a blade wrapped in frost.

“Rest easy,” he said, each word placed like a stone, “I won’t help you.”