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Chapter 44: Tang Qingshuo’s Belongings

The architecture within the Fang family estate resembled that of Suzhou gardens—elegant, serene, and exquisitely refined.

The estate spanned a vast area, stretching ten kilometers in every direction, all belonging to the Fang family. A gate named Guiyan Gate had been built in the center to separate the main garden from the two secondary gardens.

Every framed view resembled a painting, filled with poetic charm. The pavilions, towers, and terraces were arranged in harmonious layers. The pond, artificial mountains, plum blossoms, bamboo groves, ancient pavilions, and moon gates all embodied a blend of modern aesthetics with Eastern elegance, reflecting the idea of “clear waters and beautiful mountains, harmony between people and nature.”

At the heart of the estate was the Linglong Residence, which was connected to the main garden. Yan Man had grown up there, though she moved to the western secondary garden once she reached adulthood. She didn’t stay there much, however—after turning eighteen, she went abroad for her studies and, since returning to China, had been living in Beijing.

Though it was winter, the weather in southern Anhui wasn’t as cold as in Beijing. Upon landing, the difference in temperature was immediately noticeable.

The main hall of the residence was bustling with people. Partly due to the memorial day for Tang Qingshuo, and partly because everyone knew Yan Man would be returning home that evening—friends who had grown up with her were all gathered.

The elders in the family weren’t in the mood for chatting. They kept glancing eagerly toward the door.

Upon hearing the servant say that the young lady had arrived at the main garden, Father Fang and Mother Fang could no longer sit still. They rushed to the door to greet her.

“Dad, Mom,” Yan Man ran over and embraced the two.

“We’re just glad you’re home. How long can you stay this time?” Father Fang asked reflexively.

Yan Man never stayed long during her visits. Last time she was home for only two days. If they didn’t occasionally visit her in Beijing, they wouldn’t even see her once a year.

“She just got home, why ask that already?” Zhang Wanying frowned at Father Fang, clearly displeased with his question.

“I have to head back tomorrow night. Work’s just too busy,” Yan Man replied truthfully.

“So soon again…” Father Fang sighed.

“Yiyi, can we not do the modeling thing anymore? That job is just too exhausting. It breaks your mother’s heart,” Zhang Wanying said, eyes brimming with tears, tightly holding Yan Man’s hand.

“Mom, I’m not modeling anymore,” Yan Man said, wiping a tear from the corner of her mother’s eye.

“Then what are you doing in Beijing?” her mother asked.

“Secret,” Yan Man didn’t want to reveal that she was acting yet—it wasn’t time.

Any film directed by Hu Suling kept the lead actors under wraps until the official press conference before release. Since her mom was a fan of Director Hu, Yan Man wanted to surprise her.

“You child…” Zhang Wanying was helpless but eventually gave in. Let her do what she wants, as long as she’s happy.

“Let’s go in. Your Uncle and Aunt Tang are still waiting.”

Tang’s parents were of similar age to Father and Mother Fang, but they looked far less youthful—perhaps the grief of losing their son had aged them. Their faces showed signs of fatigue and sorrow.

“Uncle, Aunt,” Yan Man greeted them respectfully.

They quickly responded. Tang’s mother took Yan Man’s hand and said with concern, “Yiyi, you’ve gotten thinner.”

“No, my weight’s been about the same these past few years.”

Tang’s mother looked at her with great tenderness. She had watched Yan Man grow up and had even studied abroad with her son, Tang Qingshuo. Her feelings for Yan Man were always unique.

“Yiyi, do you have a moment? I have something to give you,” she said.

“Of course.” Yan Man nodded.

“Yiyi, take Auntie up to your room,” Zhang Wanying said gently.

There were too many people in the hall, and it was too noisy for a proper conversation.

Yan Man’s room was on the third floor. Though she hadn’t been back in a year, the room remained just as it was. The servants cleaned it daily, so it was spotless.

Tang’s mother took out an envelope from her bag. The envelope looked quite old and worn—clearly kept for a long time.

In the lower right corner of the envelope was Tang Qingshuo’s name, and it was marked “To: Yiyi.” For some reason, though, the letter had never been sent.

“I found this while sorting through Qingshuo’s belongings recently. He had hidden it away. If it hadn’t fallen out from behind a photo frame, I might never have discovered it,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion as she wiped away tears.

Yan Man lowered her eyes, staring at the envelope in her hand, her brows gradually furrowing.

She saw the words “To: Yiyi” and immediately knew that whatever was inside had something to do with her.

Tang’s mother opened the envelope and took out its contents.

It wasn’t a letter at all, but several Polaroid photos.

Yan Man froze.

“These are…”

Every photo was of her.

Only a few were of her and Tang Qingshuo together, and even those weren’t proper portraits. They were candid shots where he’d caught a shared frame when she wasn’t paying attention—his face always partially in front.

Most were solo pictures of Yan Man.

Her standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, her profile gazing at the Seine.

Her rushing through the campus, hurrying to a lecture, her back captured in a blurry motion as she walked ahead of Tang Qingshuo.

Her walking the streets of France in a qipao, drawing admiring looks from foreigners.

So many memories—too many to explain or describe.

Some photos captured moments so mundane that even Yan Man didn’t remember what she was doing—just simple scenes from daily life, all caught by Tang Qingshuo’s lens.

Yan Man clearly remembered what he had told her four years ago: that when she graduated and wore her gown, he would be her photographer.

But he never lived to see that day.

Her eyes blurred with tears as she heard Tang’s mother say,

“Yiyi, please forgive my selfishness. I believe these photos belong with you.”

Tang’s mother thought Yan Man didn’t know Tang Qingshuo had loved her. Her son had always struggled to express his feelings. But with these photos, everything was clear.

She didn’t want his love to be buried in silence, unknown to the world.

But what she didn’t know was that Tang Qingshuo had already confessed to Yan Man, and she had understood everything.

Yan Man took the photos and carefully placed them back into the envelope. She looked straight at Tang’s mother and said clearly, “Auntie, I knew Qingshuo liked me.”

Tang’s mother was surprised and instinctively wanted to ask, “Then—”

But she stopped after just one word. What was the point of asking now? He was already gone. It would only bring more pain to both herself and Yan Man.

Though the question was never spoken aloud, Yan Man knew what she meant.

Did she like Tang Qingshuo?

That question had haunted her for years.

Probably, yes. If she didn’t, how could she have fallen in love with someone like Tan Qishen?

And yet—why was it so hard to admit she liked him?

Yan Man thought to herself: I’m not a good person. I’m a bad woman. I didn’t deserve Tang Qingshuo’s love.

Tang’s mother said from the heart, “Yiyi, I just want you to be happy. Carry Qingshuo’s share of joy with you, too.”

She pulled Yan Man into a hug, like embracing her own daughter.

“…Okay.”

Yan Man leaned against her shoulder, opened her mouth, closed it again, then finally whispered softly into her ear: “Okay.”

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