One day, Jiang Xun suddenly said he wanted to set off fireworks, so Shen Wangjing drove him to an open space on the outskirts of London himself and hauled out several large boxes of fireworks, letting the kid play to his heart's content.
On the drive back to the apartment, Jiang Xun fell asleep in the back seat, worn out from playing.
The car crossed the River Thames, and the lights on the opposite bank reflected in the windows like a slowly flowing river of stars.
Jiang Xun was curled up in Shen Wangjing's coat, half his face buried in the collar, fast asleep.
Shen Wangjing glanced at him in the rearview mirror, quietly lifted the corners of his mouth, and turned the heat up another degree.
Some feelings were too weighty to put into words; some promises had long since grown into their bones.
As Shen Wangjing drove, a length of red cord showed at his wrist. It belonged to the protective charm Jiang Xun had once embroidered for him by hand. Some parts had worn pale, and the edges had frayed, but he had never taken it off, not even for a day.
The longevity lock around Jiang Xun's neck had never left him either. Its red cord rested against the small patch of skin between his collarbones, warmed by his body until it gleamed softly.
In London's damp night, the two objects rested quietly against a pulse and a heart.
One locked longing within a wish for safety; the other bound the rest of a lifetime with a red cord.
They were like two trees rooted in the wilderness, each having endured years when not a blade of grass would grow.
Jiang Xun was the one that insisted on blooming even into the wind, its branches stretching