Chapter 2: Before the rain stops2
1056 Words
In the dark, people are always more honest.
She leaned against the head of the bed with a rolled-up document on her lap. Fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of the paper, and there was a slight dry friction at the fingertips, which magnified into a monotonous rhythm in a quiet space.
The smell of rain that night still lingered on her coat.
She pulled her coat over and put it on her body. She didn't know whether it was to cover the coolness on her shoulders or to surround a certain smell closer.
When the fabric was pulled closer, a faint smell that did not belong to her himself emerged - it was a little smell mixed with rain and skin temperature when he approached under the umbrella. It was extremely faint, but not like any colleagues or diplomats she usually came into contact with.
She frowned instinctively and didn't throw away her coat.
On the contrary, she squeezed the fabric between her fingers.
This kind of out-of-control details often comes quietly.
She knew that if she took a step forward, she would change from "professional observation" to "personal indulgence".
She closed her eyes and forced herself to recall the lost painting.
The picture came to mind again: a wide picture frame, a soft river surface, and the light falling on the water lines like a thick layer of oil paint skin--
But in the middle of the painting, she always inexplicably sees a shadow of a person standing there.
A black shirt, a loose collar, and a shallow scar.
Leah suddenly opened her eyes.
She tore off her coat, sat up from the bed and walked to the bathroom.
In the mirror, the light hit her face, and she saw that her eyes were a little brighter than usual. It was not a healthy brightness, but a kind of stimulated light - like a part that should not be awakened after a long period of suppression was gently touched.
She turned on the cold water, picked it up and poured it on her face.
The cold water flowed down her jaw to the collarbone and then slid into the neck. The fabric of the shirt is attached to the skin, making hazy lines.
She raised her hand to tighten the loosened button on it, and felt that it was too tight, and finally only left a finger gap.
"Control."
She whispered to herself in the mirror.
"You are very good at this."
She turned around and left the bathroom.
In the living room, the screen of the mobile phone lit up in the dark.
A new message.
She stopped and looked at the light quietly.
That may be Eliza, or it may be a reminder from a higher level. But before she reached out to pick it up, the first thing that flashed in her mind was another more untimely possibility:
... Could it be him?
She has a number for work, only used for tasks, and is not disclosed to the public. Normally, he shouldn't have it.
But there are too many "shouldn't" parts in this person.
She approached and picked up her mobile phone. The screen lights up automatically.
SMS sender: unknown number.
There is only one sentence:
[The rain has stopped tonight, are you still standing on the side? --L]
"L."
She looked at the letter, and her heart inevitably beat faster.
She didn't reply immediately.
She sat back on the sofa and put her mobile phone on her lap, just like looking at an object that was at risk of explosion but fascinating.
The text message did not mention paintings, guns or art galleries. It only asked her - "Are you still standing on the side?"
He saw through her hesitation at that moment.
And what she has to do now is to decide whether to admit it or not.
She remembered the calm advice from Eliza on the phone.
"Every step, leave a way back."
She turned the mobile phone upside down in the palm of her hand, scratched the back shell with her fingertips, and finally turned it over and clicked on the reply box.
She typed three words and deleted them.
Type one more sentence and delete it again.
In the end, she only uttered an extremely official sentence that could be interpreted as a polite farewell by almost anyone:
[Thank you for giving me a ride.]
This sentence neither admits nor rejects.
Neither did he mention who he was, nor did he give any hints of "next time".
She clicked to send.
A small blue "Delivered" appears under the dialog box.
Almost in the same second, the screen vibrated again.
[This is not a farewell, diplomat. It's just the beginning. ——L]
This time, even "Rosano" was omitted.
That silent confidence almost seeped out through the handwriting itself.
Leah leaned on the back of the sofa and looked up at the ceiling.
She suddenly realized that she had unconsciously used "he" to refer to the man who should only be the "target", not by surname or identity.
She doesn't like the discovery very much.
It was because she didn't like it that she knew that it was real.
Under the street lamp outside the window, the street after the rain is facing the light.
The light is a bit like the bright color on the oil painting in the art gallery. It is darkened by the night, but it still stubbornly shines with a certain moist texture.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
The air in this city is humid and complicated, mixed with gasoline, sea breeze, the musty smell of old houses, and the occasional fragrance of coffee.
At this moment, she clearly realized for the first time--
I'm not just carrying out a task, but being forced to stand on an invisible edge with this city and this man surnamed Rosano.
As long as you take a step forward, many things can't be completely retreated.
She didn't know which night she would really step out.
All I know is that from the moment she didn't shout "He has a gun" in the rain, an invisible thin line has quietly wrapped around her wrist.
Neither tightened nor let go.
Like an invisible hand, slowly and patiently dragged her in a certain direction.
- Writer
