He Jian Shan didn’t wait for the banquet to end. He rushed back to Wan Zhu, his thoughts in disarray. Zhao Jianhua drove quickly, the city’s high-rises flashing past the car window like fragments of his mind. Amid these fragments, Xu Huaiqing’s voice from the banquet replayed in his head, like a neon light that refused to dim:
“Back then, in the second round of interviews, there were only two candidates: Annie and Lin Hui. I had to choose one to recommend for the final interview with you, President He. To be honest, I leaned toward Annie. Although Lin Hui was outstanding, as you said, he majored in horticulture. Not only was that unrelated to Wan Zhu, but it didn’t even fit the role of an assistant. Following you might have been a real challenge for him.”
“But Lin Hui was undeniably remarkable—his ideas, articulation, and quick thinking perfectly met my hiring criteria. It felt like a pity to let him go, so I decided to give him another chance. I asked him if he had any other qualities that could showcase his abilities.”
“He thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’m a beneficiary of the Honey Jar Fund.’”
“That really surprised me, because he hadn’t mentioned it throughout the interview. Honestly, it’s not much of a ‘qualification,’ so I jokingly asked him, ‘Are you here to repay a debt of gratitude?’”
“I still remember how embarrassed he looked as he smiled and said, ‘Wan Zhu gave me a precious gift, and I was curious, so I came.’”
“I thought he might just want to thank you in person, so I handed over both Annie’s and Lin Hui’s resumes to you. But—”
But He Jian Shan hadn’t conducted a third-round interview. He hadn’t even read their resumes, casually selecting one to be his assistant. It was, without a doubt, one of the most haphazard decisions he’d ever made.
When He Jian Shan arrived on the 12th floor, he opened the door to Lin Hui’s office. The bright light revealed a clean and pristine space. Apart from taking the Lego flower arrangement, Lin Hui had left everything exactly as it was. The cleaning staff maintained the office daily, as though waiting for its owner’s return.
He Jian Shan suddenly felt a pang of unease.
The Honey Jar Fund documents were in the bookcase behind Lin Hui’s desk. Lin Hui had taken over managing this part of the company’s operations after becoming his assistant. For reasons unknown even to himself, He Jian Shan had always harbored a distaste for the fund. He rarely asked about its performance, and to him, it was little more than a few lines in Lin Hui’s annual reports.
He had never imagined that Lin Hui came into his life because of that fund.
He’d always been curious about Lin Hui’s childhood, which seemed devoid of parents, filled only with memories of his grandmother. Lin Hui had once mentioned that his parents had passed away, in a calm and detached tone. Assuming their situations were similar—estranged family ties and perhaps unpleasant experiences—He Jian Shan had never pressed for details. Even about the pen Lin Hui had avoided discussing when they first confessed their feelings for each other, he didn’t push further.
Looking back, there had been signs. The first time Lin Hui visited his home, he’d shown a keen interest in the Honey Jar Fund. When He Jian Shan called it a mere PR tool, Lin Hui had strongly disagreed. He should’ve realized it then, but that night held too many cherished memories. Distracted, he’d overlooked it entirely.
Opening the cabinet, He Jian Shan pulled out a file labeled “Honey Jar Project Fund: Beneficiary Records.”
When the fund was established, the company had provided two options: a one-time cash gift of ¥4,950 or a year-long gift package containing ten items selected by female staff members and two items He Jian Shan personally chose—a birthday cake and a classic AS-brand fountain pen.
For He Jian Shan, birthdays were less about celebration and more about the beginning of a nightmare. The pen, worth ¥49,500, was the last thing Yao Qianyi had left him, embodying, in his memory, the price of maternal love.
Why he included these items in a gift pack meant to symbolize motherly affection was beyond explanation. The fund’s name, Honey Jar, was deceptively sweet, evoking warmth and tenderness. Yet it was born from a lie to cover another lie. Sending such gifts to beneficiaries felt like an elaborate performance piece: they’d never know the horrifying tragedy behind the facade of maternal love.
He Jian Shan had always thought of himself as a fraud.
He pulled out a stack of applications, thick with records of past beneficiaries. As he flipped through the pages, one name made him stop—
Lin Hui.
On the application form was Lin Hui’s blue-background ID photo. He looked younger and more naïve, but his smile hadn’t changed. It was the same smile He Jian Shan saw every morning at home, every day at Wan Zhu, every moment of the past eight years.
Staring at the thin A4 paper, He Jian Shan couldn’t help but laugh. Slowly, his eyes reddened.
Sometimes, the world made no sense at all.
Closing his eyes, He Jian Shan took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he reached for his phone and made a call.
The next morning, Lin Hui arrived at his family home in Fenggou Town, Pingjiang District, Yang City. Carrying the Spring Festival couplets and red Fu characters he’d bought, he started his journey from the hotel to the village. The taxi dropped him off at the main road; the rest of the way was a narrow path. Standing at the entrance, wrapped in the morning mist, Lin Hui began walking toward home.
This was the same path he had walked countless times—from a babbling toddler to a university graduate. It had changed over the years: a muddy road when he was a child, requiring him and his grandmother to wear rubber boots on rainy days; a gravel path during his middle school years, thanks to a factory owner who smoothed it out for his own convenience. Eventually, it became a concrete road with a name—Xiu Ying Road, named after Lin Hui’s grandmother. Lin Hui had funded its construction, requesting only that it bear her name.
The village was barren in winter, the fields empty and the roadside overgrown with withered grass. Yet, Lin Hui felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity and warmth. As he walked, he greeted everyone:
“Good morning, Auntie!”
“Oh, Xiao Hui! You’re back early this year!”
“Brother Hui! Long time no see, you’ve lost weight!”
“Lin Hui? You’re back? Come over for lunch later.”
“Second Grandpa, watch your step—there’s a pothole!”
“I see it, I see it. Xiao Hui, is that you?”
At the end of Xiu Ying Road stood Lin Hui’s family home, the first house in the village. The old house looked as aged as ever. The bright red Fu character from last year had faded to pale white. Lin Hui took out a rusty key, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Meanwhile, fifteen minutes away, He Jian Shan arrived at the Yang City airport. Following Lin Hui’s location pin, he made his way to the village. By the time he reached the end of Xiu Ying Road, the morning mist had lifted, revealing a tranquil scene bathed in soft sunlight.
Lin Hui’s family home appeared small and old, yet every detail felt imbued with warmth. The red Fu characters on the door seemed to carry Lin Hui’s touch. Inside, the eight-sided red dining table had a chipped corner; the crocheted table cover was stained yellow and black. In the yard stood a well, next to it a basin and damp ground—evidence of Lin Hui’s recent activity.
And in the middle of the yard stood a lush wintersweet tree, its yellow blossoms exuding a subtle fragrance.
From somewhere nearby came the sound of familiar voices:
“Xiao Hui, you’ve already put up the decorations in the yard?”
“Yes, almost done.”
“Having lunch at my place today?”
“No, Second Aunt, I need to head back right after finishing.”
“Alright then. Oh, by the way, someone went into your house earlier. Could it be someone from the village looking for you?”
“Me? That’s unlikely—”
Lin Hui’s voice grew closer, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps. Standing behind the wintersweet tree, He Jian Shan felt his heartbeat quicken. Then, Lin Hui appeared.
“I’ll go check—”
Lin Hui froze mid-sentence.
Standing amidst the fragrant blooms of the wintersweet tree, He Jian Shan quietly looked at him.
The breeze carried the scent of the flowers across the yard, their golden blossoms blooming in full splendor.
Author’s Note:
The next chapter will unveil Lin Hui’s story and their shared past.
