The curtain was parted just a crack, letting slivers of silvery light seep through. Outside, the rain fell harder.

Mo Xuan lay on crisp white sheets, arms outstretched, gazing at the spotless ceiling.

Yun Jiumo straddled his waist, neck arched. Her slender, rosy legs clamped tightly around him, muscles taut with effort, every line sharply defined.

Eyes shut tight, delicate brows furrowed. Soft, breathy moans escaped her rosy lips. Glistening sweat traced paths down her snow-pale skin; a fine sheen dampened her brow.

By the candle’s faint glow on the nightstand, her shadow danced across the still curtain—a rapid, rhythmic rise and fall.

At last, a low, blissful sigh spilled from her. The lingering note drifted through the room like a violin’s final, passionate stroke.

She tightened her legs, tossed her head back. Jet-black hair swept a graceful arc. Her body shuddered in waves, overwhelmed by a volcanic surge that left her utterly limp.

A hand stroked her head, fingers kneading gently. Mo Xuan watched his wife, his face half-lit, half-shadowed by flickering light.

As her breath steadied, she offered a bewitching smile. “Darling,” she murmured, making no move to rise, “you’re not in the mood tonight?”

“Nothing. Just… we do this every night. Tired. Need a break.”

No lie. After today’s turmoil, Mo Xuan felt hollow. All he wanted was sleep.

His palm slid from her cheek to shoulder, drifting lower. To him, her body was art—voluptuous yet slender, glowing gold in the candlelight, stirring quiet longing.

“How about you take the lead?” Yun Jiumo tilted her head with a soft laugh, her full chest swaying gently.

Mo Xuan shook his head.

Sensing his mood, her smile faded. She met his gaze with beautiful, distant eyes, rolled off him, and reached for tissues.

“Rest well,” she said, pulling on underwear, slipping a robe over her shoulders before opening the door.

The fourth floor was their private domain—guards and staff forbidden without leave. Today’s four negligent guards were already dismissed. The new six? Broad-shouldered, cold-eyed. Mo Xuan wouldn’t doubt they’d seen battle.

Soon she returned, holding a cup of vibrant honey pomelo tea—his favorite. Yun Jiumo had learned to brew it perfectly, making him one daily.

“Drink it,” she said, placing it on the nightstand. She leaned down, brushed a fleeting kiss on his unmoving lips, and smiled.

She still had to prep the interrupted meeting next door. As promised at their wedding: Yun Jiumo earned the living; Mo Xuan lived carefree.

Once the door clicked shut, Mo Xuan—who’d been playing dead—shot upright. Dizziness hit instantly; he swayed, catching himself.

“Damn. This body’s wrecked. Only good in bed,” he muttered, stumbling to the coat rack and pulling out the diary Shen Bingjing gave him.

Shen Bingyao’s keepsake.

Honestly? He never pictured that quiet girl keeping a diary. Who does that these days?

But… it fit her. The one who hid everything—even from Shen Bingjing. This diary likely held a teenage girl’s most fragile, buried secrets.

Fingertips traced the cover’s texture. Mo Xuan breathed deep, opened it with solemn care.

He was stepping into the inner world of a girl gone too soon.

…

*March 7th*

Heavy rain today. No umbrella. Couldn’t reach Xiao Jing. He walked me home and gave me roasted sweet potatoes.

Said his name is Mo Xuan. Also from Qingyuan High. So handsome, with a warm smile. The first boy I’ve ever really known.

He’s kind.

*March 20th*

Xiao Jing said he’s Class One’s basketball star—great player, top grades. Many girls like him. Makes sense. A helpful guy like him would be loved anywhere.

*May 3rd*

He visited, bringing cakes. I knew he came for Xiao Jing—sports day’s coming; she’s cheer squad vice-captain. They planned for an hour. I listened silently. Too long away from school… I didn’t belong. So I made tea. He sipped it. Said my brewing was wonderful.

No one ever praised my tea before. I still remember his smile—bright as morning sun through the window.

*July 7th*

Xiao Jing seemed down. Said he likes a classmate—Yun Jiumo. Stunning, elegant, well-endowed. The type everyone notices.

I stayed quiet. After she left, my chest ached. Was it because he liked someone else? If he’s with her… will he still visit us?

*September 10th*

Mid-Autumn Festival. Felt like any other day. My mooncakes failed. Xiao Jing went to buy some. The door opened—he stood there, holding mooncakes, smiling: “Happy Mid-Autumn!” He shared them freely.

They say it’s for family reunions. We’d stopped hoping for that. But today, with him laughing in our yard… I felt, just for a moment, like we had a home again. Was it because of him?

…

Mo Xuan flipped further—stunned. Blank pages. Torn edges. Entries fragmented, ragged. Shen Bingyao wrote line after line, never skipping space. Someone had ripped parts out.

Shen Bingjing would never do that. Only one possibility: Shen Bingyao herself. Left these broken pieces behind.

Even so, he felt her loneliness, her quiet ache.

After their parents died in a plane crash, relatives offered shelter—but only for Shen Bingjing. They ignored Shen Bingyao, paralyzed, wheelchair-bound. “Too much burden.”

She was shuffled away, treated as if born unnecessary.

Shen Bingjing refused separation. Compromise: relatives paid living costs until adulthood. That’s why holidays felt empty. Relations fractured. Few visited.

Ironically, Mo Xuan—the outsider—became a regular. He liked bickering with Xiao Jing. Loved their small courtyard, the delicate garden. A childhood dream.

Now, a cold truth struck him: he’d never truly *seen* Shen Bingyao.

Too quiet. Never spoke at school. Always smiled, nodded, served tea while he and Xiao Jing talked. He’d overlooked her.

Yet this unassuming girl had cherished him silently for years. Without Xiao Jing’s words, he might never have known—even after dating Yun Jiumo.

The funeral flashed in his mind. Shen Bingyao’s frozen smile. Xiao Jing’s voice: *“Her greatest wish was for you to truly see her… but you never did.”*

A sharp twinge pierced his chest.

Regret. Remorse. Shame. He hated the boy he’d been—the one who recoiled, who hurt her again and again.

Silence. He clutched his head, jaw tight.

The bedroom door opened without sound. A chill draft slipped in.

Yun Jiumo stood behind him like a phantom—skin pale as snow, lips red as blood.

Mo Xuan remained lost in grief.

Her gaze settled on the torn diary. Her cold eyes widened. Inky darkness bloomed deep within—night swallowing light, bleeding into endless shadow. Disgust. Fury. Sorrow. All twisting into an abyss.

Slowly, silently, she raised her hands and stepped closer.