Shattered Window

Chapter 26: The Entire Architectural Sketchbook — the Last Page Is All Her

After the night Shen Zhi said "don't go," neither of them mentioned it again over the next few days. But something had changed — Shen Zhi no longer deliberately kept her distance. In the mornings, when he cooked noodles, she would stand beside him and watch. In the evenings, when he came back, she would ask, "Tired today?" When they sat in the living room, her knee sometimes touched his leg. She didn't pull away. Neither did he.

But Yuanzhou had something weighing on his mind. Five days left on his visa, and still no word from Yang Rui. He didn't want to push, but every morning the first thing he did was check his phone — no new messages, no missed calls, nothing.

That afternoon, there wasn't much business at Old Zhou's restaurant. Old Zhou told Yuanzhou to go home early, saying, "You've looked terrible lately. Go rest." Yuanzhou didn't argue. He rode his scooter back.

When he reached the bookstore, Shen Zhi was sitting behind the register, reading. When she saw him come in, she put down her book. "You're early today."

"Old Zhou sent me back. Said I look terrible."

Shen Zhi looked at him. "You do look pretty bad. Go rest upstairs."

Yuanzhou went upstairs, washed his face, and sat on the sofa. He took out his notebook and opened it, intending to draw. But after a few strokes, he couldn't continue — his head was full of visa worries, a tangled mess.

He flipped back through the pages, looking at his old sketches. The community library proposal. The stove at Old Zhou's restaurant. The design for the curved bookshelf. As he flipped, he reached the last page.

His hand stopped.

On the last page was a profile of Shen Zhi. When had he drawn it? His first week here. That day she'd leaned against the doorframe watching him fix the window, her hair covering half her face, the scar visible. He'd drawn it casually, then never looked at it again, leaving it hidden on the last page.

But now, looking at that profile, something struck him in the chest. The drawing wasn't great — the lines were a bit stiff — but it had captured her expression: that aloof, thousand‑miles‑away coldness, and yet something hidden between her brows that he couldn't name. He hadn't captured it at the time, but now he could see it. It was fragility.

Yuanzhou stared at that drawing for a long time. He heard footsteps and quickly closed the notebook. Shen Zhi came up with a glass of water and set it on the coffee table. "Drink some water." She sat on the sofa and picked up her book. His heart was still racing, and he tucked the notebook under his leg.

"What do you draw in that notebook?" Shen Zhi asked suddenly.

"Nothing. Just random sketches."

"Can I see?"

Yuanzhou hesitated. "Don't bother. They're not good."

"You built that bookshelf, and you can't draw?" Shen Zhi reached out her hand. "Let me see."

Yuanzhou looked at her and handed over the notebook. Shen Zhi took it and opened to the first page — the community library sketch. She looked at it carefully, page by page. When she reached the drawing of Old Zhou's restaurant stove, she paused.

"Is this Old Zhou?" she asked.

"Yeah. He's flipping the wok."

"It looks just like him." Shen Zhi turned a few more pages and came to the design drawing for the curved bookshelf. "Is this the bookshelf you made for me?"

"Yeah. The design."

"You kept the design?"

"I keep every page."

Shen Zhi glanced at him and kept flipping. When she reached the second‑to‑last page, she paused — it was a sketch of the bookstore corner, showing the maple tree and the rain outside the window. Yuanzhou didn't remember when he'd drawn it — probably some afternoon while waiting for the rain to stop.

"You drew my tree too," Shen Zhi said.

"Just a quick sketch."

She didn't respond. She turned to the last page.

Silence.

Shen Zhi stared at the profile for a long moment without moving. Yuanzhou sat beside her, his back soaked with sweat. He didn't know what she was thinking — that the drawing was bad? That he was a creep? That secretly drawing her was disgusting?

"When did you draw this?" Shen Zhi asked. Her voice was very calm.

"My first week here."

"You drew me that early?"

"Just a quick sketch. You were leaning against the doorframe watching me fix the window—"

"I know." Shen Zhi interrupted him. "I remember that day."

Yuanzhou blinked. She remembered.

Shen Zhi looked at the drawing and gently touched the scar on the paper with her finger. "You made me too pretty," she said.

"No. That's what you look like."

Shen Zhi looked up at him. Her eyes were bright — not with tears, with something else. "Who else have you drawn?"

"No one else."

"The whole notebook is full of buildings, and the last page is me?"

"Yeah."

Shen Zhi looked down, glanced at the drawing one more time, then closed the notebook and handed it back.

"Not bad," she said. Her voice was a little hoarse.

Yuanzhou took the notebook, not knowing what to say. Shen Zhi stood up and walked to the window, turning her back to him. The rain was still falling, drops on the glass, the streetlight outside breaking into fragments through the droplets.

"Lin Yuanzhou."

"Yeah."

"About your visa — has Yang Rui said anything yet?"

"Not yet."

"Are you worried?"

"Worrying doesn't help."

Shen Zhi turned to face him. "Have you thought about what happens if you can't stay—"

"Every day." Yuanzhou interrupted her. "I think about it every day."

Shen Zhi walked over and sat back down on the sofa. She was closer to him than before — close enough that he could smell her scent: laundry detergent, faint, like winter air.

"If you can't stay, where will you go?" she asked.

"Back to China. Shanghai."

"Does it rain in Shanghai?"

"It does. But not as much as Seattle."

Shen Zhi looked down, her finger tracing circles on her knee. "Seattle has too much rain."

"You don't like it?"

"I used not to." She paused. "Now... it's okay."

Yuanzhou looked at her, his heart beating fast. He knew what she wanted to say, but he didn't dare respond. Not because he didn't want to — because he was afraid that if he responded, leaving would be even harder. He put his notebook on the coffee table and stood up. "I'll go cook some noodles."

"Lin Yuanzhou."

He stopped.

"Don't cook noodles." Shen Zhi said. "Sit down."

He sat.

The two of them sat on the sofa, barely an arm's length apart. The rain was loud, the apartment quiet. Shen Zhi reached out and touched the back of his hand. Her hand was cold. His was cold too. She didn't pull away.

"Your notebook — the last page is me." Shen Zhi said. "When you drew me, what were you thinking?"

Yuanzhou thought for a moment. "I wasn't thinking anything. I just thought... you looked beautiful."

"Even with the scar on my face?"

"More beautiful because of the scar."

Shen Zhi's hand twitched, but she didn't pull away. "You really are strange."

"You've said that before."

"Then I'll say it again."

Yuanzhou smiled, turned his hand over, and held hers. Her hand was small, cool, the knuckles prominent. He held her hand and said nothing. Shen Zhi said nothing either. The two of them just sat like that, hands clasped, watching the rain through the window.

After a long time, Shen Zhi gently pulled her hand back. "Are you making noodles or not?"

"Making them."

Yuanzhou stood up and went to the kitchen. At the kitchen door, he looked back. Shen Zhi was still sitting on the sofa, head down, the tips of her ears red. He smiled and turned to cook the noodles. The water boiled, the noodles went in, the noodles danced in the pot — just like his heart.

When the noodles were done, he scooped two bowls and carried them out. Shen Zhi took hers, lowered her head, and took a bite.

"Too salty," she said.

"Next time I'll use less salt."

"You say that every time."

"And I forget every time."

Shen Zhi glanced at him, the corner of her mouth turned up. She finished the noodles, including all the broth.

That night, Yuanzhou lay in bed, picked up his notebook, and flipped to the last page. Beside the profile of Shen Zhi, he wrote a line:

"She said my drawing wasn't bad. She said 'more beautiful because of the scar.' She told me to sit down, not to cook noodles. She touched my hand. I didn't let go."

He closed the notebook and turned off the light. The room next door was quiet, but he knew she wasn't asleep. He heard the creak of her bed, then her soft footsteps. The light under the door went out.

Yuanzhou closed his eyes. Five days left on his visa. He didn't know what would happen in five days. But tonight, Shen Zhi had touched his hand, and he hadn't let go. That was enough.