Several days passed after that. Tan Yin remained shut away in the cramped room of the inn. Beyond the window lay the bustling mortal world—voices, carriage wheels, cries of vendors blending into a vague wash of noise. Within the window, there was only his heart, churning like rivers and seas, roaring soundlessly amid deathly silence.
He turned over that unhappy meeting with Wang Rong again and again, every detail magnified, stretched out, and scrutinized repeatedly.
Wang Rong's weary, hollow eyes; his back, faintly trembling from weakness yet still held straight; those muffled, icy words painfully forced out through clenched teeth... They were like red-hot brands, searing the softest part of Tan Yin's heart over and over, leaving behind scorching pain.
The more he thought, the more flustered he became. Deep fear coiled around every inch of his body like vines.
At one moment, he realized in horror that he was so very much like that man from his memories—the man entangled with his mother, who had ultimately taken his own life in cowardice.
The same indecision, always hesitating at crucial choices; the same useless weakness, always choosing escape when things slipped beyond control, especially when they touched upon those unspeakable matters of true feeling.
Building high walls with indifference and rejection, pushing away those who drew near, yet self-righteously believing it was "for their own good."
But what had that man's death brought in return?
By the time he had finally gathered the courage, his mother had already sunk herself into the pond with resentment in her heart. Everything had become irretrievable.
That belated "courage," aimed at himself, had meant nothing but the addition of another tragedy, proving that he was a coward through and through.
Too late.
Those four words struck through his empty mind like a funeral bell,