Chapter 15

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall plane trees by the street, scattering dappled shadows on the flagstone pavement.

Ran Nannan walked slowly along the sidewalk, carrying a light brown cloth bag in her hand. Inside were lotus stamens and powdered angelica, freshly picked up from the old herbal shop. The paper packets were carefully tied with a silk ribbon, exuding a faint medicinal fragrance.

She had just come from Aunt Miao’s house—a graceful, middle-aged woman who couldn’t stop praising the face cream Nannan had personally blended. She even ordered two more jars and promised to introduce her to more friends.

As she left, Aunt Miao held her hand, her smile tinged with the kind of admiration and tender fondness unique to women.
“Nannan, a sweet and skillful girl like you will definitely have a bright future.”

Ran Nannan merely smiled softly and said nothing.
But in that moment, a stronger sense of purpose than she had ever known quietly took root inside her.

At the street corner, she suddenly noticed a newly opened bookstore.

It was a quiet, independent little shop. At the entrance stood two old iron flower stands, entwined with ivy. A wooden wind chime hung on the glass door, tinkling lightly in the breeze.

She stood at the door for a while before gently pushing it open and stepping inside.

The bookstore was peaceful, filled only with the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of pages turning. Wooden bookshelves were scattered neatly throughout the space, a few desk lamps casting warm pools of light over rows upon rows of book spines.

She walked slowly past the shelves, her fingertips brushing lightly over the books—some smooth, some coarse, all faintly cool to the touch.

At the farthest shelf in the back, she stopped.

Her gaze fell on a book with a grey-white cover and delicate golden calligraphy: The Book of Changes (Zhou Yi). She pulled it out and gently flipped it open.

It was an old annotated edition, the pages yellowed with age and carrying a faintly dry scent. Halfway through, she came upon a page with fine vermilion ink markings—someone long ago had left handwritten notes in the margins.

“The Dao gives birth to One, One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three, and Three gives birth to all things.”

She lowered her eyes, her fingertip gently tracing that line. A strange stillness rose quietly within her.

She was only ten the year she was taken from the Qinghong Pavilion to the Zhou household to be evaluated. The matron had her stand before a cold bronze mirror, checking if her “bone structure was refined and her meridians clear.” The woman had said in a hard voice:
“You’re going to be a noble lady someday—if your energy isn’t collected, your fortune will scatter.”

She hadn’t understood back then. All she remembered was trying desperately to hold in her stomach and keep her shoulders straight, hoping for a rare word of praise.

Now, many years later, she finally understood those words were only meant to make her more desirable.

But now, she just wanted to choose her life on her own terms.

As she stared at that vermilion line, lost in thought, a sound of footsteps came from the other side of the bookshelf.

Then, a deep, slightly husky voice—low and magnetic—spoke not far away:
“Excuse me.”

Ran Nannan froze, snapping back to awareness, and instinctively glanced through the gap in the bookshelf.

The first thing she saw was a hand—long-fingered, cleanly trimmed nails, resting lightly on the cover of a deep blue book.

Then, a glimpse of a refined side profile—high nose bridge, firm lips slightly pursed, an air of unconscious aloofness.

The man turned slightly, and his gaze landed on her.

In that brief eye contact, she felt something brush lightly against her chest—an inexplicable flicker of sensation.

His eyes were incredibly dark and deep, like a still pool of water, reflecting the bookstore’s warm golden lights with the faintest ripple.

He looked at her, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly, as if studying her carefully.

Ran Nannan stood frozen, clutching the book, her palm beginning to sweat.

His gaze dropped to the book in her hands, and his tone turned casual, almost teasing:
“Interesting read.”

His voice was even deeper than it seemed—like warm wind brushing her ear.

Nannan parted her lips, murmuring a soft, “Mm.”

Then she realized, to her dismay, that she’d been pressing her finger so tightly on the edge of the page that it had nearly left a mark.

The man noticed too—his eyes dropped briefly to her hand, glinting slightly.

Then he smiled faintly and said softly:
“Careful not to hurt yourself.”

His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an undeniable tenderness to it.

As if he saw right through all her careful restraint—and cherished it just the same.

Nannan felt her ears flush. She quickly released the book and whispered, “…Thank you.”

He seemed to smile again but didn’t say more. He tucked his book under one arm and walked toward the counter.

She stared blankly at his retreating figure.

His shoulders were broad and straight, his steps unhurried, radiating a quiet nobility and indifference.

It was exactly the kind of aura that countless ladies in the Qinghong Pavilion had longed to chase.

She watched him, a little dazed.

At the counter, the shop owner said something to him with a smile. He merely tilted his head lazily in response, his voice too low to catch.

Soon after, he paid and left.

As he walked out, the wind chime above the door chimed softly, and his figure was swallowed by the sunlight outside.

Ran Nannan stood among the shelves for a long moment without moving.

When she finally came to, she realized she was still holding the Zhou Yi.

The page was still open to that line—the vermilion markings quietly glowing with something inexplicable.

She pressed her lips together and gently closed the book, hugging it to her chest.

At the counter, the bookstore owner gave her a curious look and asked with a smile, “Young lady, do you know that Mr. Shen from earlier?”

Ran Nannan blinked and softly shook her head. “No.”

“Still, that’s fate.” The owner smiled more broadly. “That’s Master Shen of the Shen family. It’s rare for anyone to even get a few words out of him.”

Master Shen.

Shen Yuchen.

Ran Nannan silently repeated the name in her heart, feeling a strange, tingling sensation bloom in her chest.

She stepped out of the bookstore with her new book. The sky had already begun to blush with sunset. The clouds were tinted with the palest pink, like someone had gently brushed watercolor across the sky.

Cars flowed along the street. She walked slowly across the crosswalk, step by step making her way home.

But that strange flutter in her heart, like something gently tickling it, refused to fade.

That night, she placed the book on her bedside table. After showering, her hair still damp, she sat before a small mirror and began combing it slowly, one stroke at a time.

Each stroke seemed to untangle her thoughts along with the strands.

And yet, that pair of dark eyes—that quiet, teasing “Careful not to hurt yourself”—lingered in her ears.

When she finally lay down, she turned to face the book.

Her heart was still quietly thudding.

Unable to resist, she touched her fingertip to the corner of her lips.

—How strange.

It was only a chance encounter, just a single line, yet it felt like a tiny spark had been lit.

She suddenly chuckled softly.

That night, she dreamed she was standing high above the ground, wind lifting her long skirt.

And he was standing not far away, holding that deep blue book—looking at her with calm, quiet eyes.