Zhao Yiming was so happy—being able to hold his daughter again, after all these years he'd wasted. His heart ached, yet felt strangely full.
He wanted to say more, to let her know that Lao Chen had truly loved her, even if he hadn't known how to show it.
But... he held back.
'A man like me doesn't deserve to say such things,' he thought, bitterly.
'Maybe it's better if Yanyan believes her old man was no good... At least then, she won't cry too much over me being gone.'
He kept gently rubbing her back, his hand trembling slightly.
'Ah... if only I could hold her like this forever... like back when she was just a little thing, still reaching out for me with those tiny hands... My precious girl.'
But like all dreams, this one had to end too as Lao Xinya suddenly pushed him away, her expression nervous. She kept her face down, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Ugh... Sorry for that..." she murmured. "Also, don't ever tell anyone this happened!" She stood up, frowning. "Okay?"
"Ah... That—"
But his words were cut short when Xinya turned and walked off. Only, a moment later, she came back—still avoiding eye contact. Even in the dark, he could see the flush on her face.
"Umm... Thanks for telling me about my dad. Also, don't tell anyone!" she huffed, stomping the ground before storming out of the funeral parlor.
Zhao Yiming couldn't help but laugh.
"Ah... she's still as shy as ever like a wild cat, ckck."
He shook his head and stood up, walking slowly back toward the building under the soft, bright moonlight.
But when he entered the room again, Wen Qiao was gone.
According to the others who came to mourn, she had already left and taken the urn with her.
He sighed, shoulders heavy.
'I missed my chance to apologize again...'
'Xiao Qiao... opened a noodle shop after she left me, didn't she? Maybe... maybe I ought to stop by someday.'
There was a gentle warmth in his chest now. Regret still lingered, of course—but so did something else.
Hope.
Even if he couldn't tell them the truth… even if he could never say "I'm your Lao Chen"—he could still be near them. Still walk beside them, one small step at a time.
He could start over—not as Lao Chen the failure—but as someone who wouldn't waste this second chance.
***
Morning came quickly, and Zhao Yiming was finally able to do what he had been dying to do ever since entering this body.
Shaving.
"Heavens above, this body's a complete disaster…"
He shook his head, staring at the overgrown hair on his armpits, chest, and jaw as he rubbed it.
"I could braid this beard," he sighed.
"And this chest... how's it even possible for hair to grow this thick? What kind of diet was this boy on? In my day, I couldn't even grow a proper mustache."
"Life is seriously unfair," he muttered with a click of his tongue.
He continued inspecting every detail of his body in the mirror. Nothing strange at all—aside from one very obvious thing.
"…Also, his junior is way too big. Or is it supposed to be this size?" He squinted and poked it. "Damn. God really was playing favorites!"
Shaking off the disbelief, Zhao Yiming finally grabbed the shaving cream and began the process.
First the beard—scraped off clean with steady hands. Then the chest, with long, careful strokes. After that, the armpits, then the legs… which felt more like mowing a lawn than grooming a body.
"If I planted a seed in this, would it grow?" he joked to himself dryly, chuckling as he shaved his feet.
Once he was finally smooth and civilized, he turned to the mirror again, eyeing the long hair that framed his young face. He picked up a pair of scissors.
"Just the bangs," he told himself.
But the moment the cold blade touched his hair, he froze.
"No, no. Bad idea. This kind of thing, let the professionals handle. I don't want to walk around looking like a shaved potato."
With a defeated sigh, Zhao Yiming placed the scissors back on the counter.
He straightened his collar, smoothed his shirt, and stepped out of the bathroom.
Then out of his apartment, welcomed by the gentle warmth of spring sunlight and the scent of flowers just beginning to bloom.
As he strolled through the garden, enjoying the fresh air and floral breeze, he noticed someone sitting on a bench.
He could only see her back, but the silky short brown hair and the simple, elegant dress gave it away instantly.
Though her posture was slightly hunched, he knew exactly who it was.
'Ah… that must be Mrs. Su. What a coincidence.'
'I ought to pay the rent anyway,' he thought, humming his favorite tune as he approached her.
He sat down beside her and smiled. "Mrs. Su, I need to—"
But before he could finish his sentence, he realized Su Meilin was quietly crying.
She frantically wiped at her face and shifted her body to the side, as if trying to hide her tears.
Something troubling you?" he asked gently, voice low with concern.
"Oh no! I'm fine, really!" she answered, forcing a shaky laugh. "It's just… pollen! I must've developed an allergy…"
"Eh? Really? I don't remember you having one," he frowned, then reached into his pocket.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a soft, folded handkerchief.
"Here. It's clean. You don't have to speak if you don't want to. But if something's heavy in your heart, sharing it can lighten the load."
She hesitated for a moment, then took the handkerchief with a small nod of gratitude. She dabbed at her eyes and nose, clearly overwhelmed.
Just then, a familiar ding echoed in his mind.
["Persuasion Pro" perk automatically activated!][You now have a 50% chance to persuade Su Meilin to open up about what's making her sorrowful!]
"Mrs. Su… you're not originally from this town, are you?" Zhao Yiming said softly. "When you're far from home, even a warm day can feel cold."
He let out a slow breath. "I've lived long enough to know that silence is often a woman's armor. But sometimes… silence hurts more than it protects."
Back when he was Lao Chen, he'd had the occasional conversation with Su Meilin. But her husband always disapproved and saying:
"Don't talk too much with him! You'll catch his poverty!"
That man had money, sure. But no warmth in his voice. No kindness in his eyes.
"…That's not it," Su Meilin finally said, voice small.
She clenched the handkerchief tightly, as if afraid it might slip from her grip.
"My husband… he hurt me."