Chapter 5 — Listening to the Rain to Read Hearts

I immediately caught sight of Sun Weibin, a middle-aged man wearing glasses who looked refined and scholarly. Standing right beside him was a woman with a very subtle, restrained smile. I recognized her instantly. As I was busy packing up my belongings to head out, a sudden knock echoed from the door. It was Shen Zheng. His eyes were bloodshot and blazing, yet there was also the sharp, eager gleam of a hunter who had just cornered his prey.

We have locked onto our target. The fifth target is the fruit vendor down on the pedestrian street, who also happens to be a student in the calligraphy class. Sun Weibin was spotted lingering near her home just last night. Our men are already deployed, simply waiting for him to step out into the open.

My heart plummeted straight down into my stomach.

No. You have targeted the wrong person.

I slammed the shared photograph heavily down onto the table right in front of him.

The person he is truly searching for is not that student, but her.

The woman standing next to Sun Weibin in that photograph was none other than the person who had once come to my stall, nervously asking whether her husband was having an affair. She was the victim of domestic abuse whom I had previously urged to seek help at the Women's Federation. I distinctly remembered the lingering bruises hidden on her wrists. Shen Zheng stared down at the photograph, utterly stunned.

She is a student in the calligraphy class too?

No. She is an employee at the cultural center, and she is Sun Weibin's wife.

The color drained entirely from Shen Zheng's face, his expression shifting in an instant.

Move!

We rushed out of the building and leaped into the Jeep. The engine roared to life, and the vehicle bolted fiercely toward the cultural center. Along the way, Shen Zheng shouted frantically into his radio:

Team One, Team Two, head to the cultural center immediately! The target has changed, I repeat, the target has changed!

Following that, through the swift and decisive coordination of the police, they finally tracked down Sun Weibin inside an abandoned storage room deep within the cultural center. He had tightly bound his wife to a chair, a chilling blade clutched fiercely in his hand. He ranted bitterly that years ago, his own mother had also suffered relentless abuse at the hands of his father. On the twenty-second day of the month, she had broken and jumped into the river to end her life. He harbored a deep, twisted hatred for all women who failed to resist, while simultaneously despising his own helpless, submissive wife. The four deceased victims had all confided in him about their profound life miseries while attending the calligraphy classes. In his distorted mind, they were just as cowardly as his mother, and therefore deserved to die. The case was officially closed. That very afternoon, the entire county public security bureau was granted a half-day off. Yet, Shen Zheng did not rest. As dusk fell, he made his way over to my place once again. This time, he came bearing provisions: a bag of fresh apples and a carton of instant noodles.

These were distributed as welfare rations by the bureau, and I simply cannot finish them all by myself.

I looked at the meager offerings, then raised my gaze to look at him.

Are you not going to treat the wound on your face?

It is merely a scratch.

He placed the items neatly outside the doorway and turned to leave. After taking two steps, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

Oh, and one more thing. Once this case is officially filed away, your identity will not appear in any of the public documents. You can rest easy.

I know.

With that, he departed. That quiet evening, I boiled a bowl of noodles, savoring it alongside one of the crisp apples he had brought. It was difficult to put into words precisely what I felt inside. It was not a flutter of romantic excitement, but rather a profoundly strange sense of utter peace. It felt as though, in a completely unfamiliar and desolate place, someone had quietly stepped forward to anticipate and take care of matters that even you had neglected. The locks had been replaced. The apples had been delivered. My identity had been securely shielded. He handled each of these tasks one by one, quietly slipping away the moment they were done, never uttering a single superfluous word.

Following the conclusion of the case, Shen Zheng visited far less frequently. Whenever he happened to pass by the East Gate market, he would offer a brief, polite nod of acknowledgment. Occasionally, catching sight of his Jeep half a street away, my heart would skip a beat for less than a fraction of a second before I instinctively lowered my head once more to read palms for the passing patrons. Life drifted smoothly back into its familiar, tranquil rhythm. I truly believed that my days would continue onward in this exact fashion—setting up the stall each morning, reading fortunes, packing up at dusk, and retiring for the night, peacefully drifting into old age. However, in the autumn of 1998, a sudden turn of events disrupted the trajectory of my life entirely. It began with the county television station. At that time, the Nanhaixian television station was undergoing restructuring, mimicking larger urban networks to produce lifestyle programs centered around the common folk. A young, sharp-witted producer named Gao Yuanzheng, fresh out of junior college and brimming with ideas, spent his days scouring the county seat in search of compelling stories. He eventually discovered me at the market. To be precise, someone had mentioned my existence to him. Word had spread that at the East Gate market, an eighteen-year-old girl possessed an uncanny accuracy when reading palms, with queues often stretching all the way to the vegetable stands. Gao Yuanzheng visited twice. The first time, he observed me covertly from afar, standing quietly behind the crowd. The second time, he walked right up to my stall, squatted down on his heels, and pulled out a five-yuan note.

Read my palm.

I took hold of his hand.

You did not come here to have your fortune told. You came in search of a story.

He blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter.

Is it really that obvious?

The spot where you grip your pen is heavily calloused, but not from ordinary handwriting; rather, it is the distinct callous of someone trained in shorthand. Furthermore, what is poking out of your pocket is not the cap of a pen, but the switch of a miniature recorder.

He slowly withdrew his hand, his eyes gleaming with sudden admiration.

I work for the county television station. I want to produce a special feature program about you.

I am not interested.

Why not?

I have no desire to appear on television.

He refused to give up. Throughout the entire week that followed, he showed up at my stall day after day, purchasing a bowl of savory tofu pudding to eat while sitting nearby, striking up casual conversations with me whenever the chance arose.

Where are you originally from?

Inside the township.

Is there anyone else left in your family?

No one.

Who taught you this craft?

My grandmother. She has passed away.