PUAA Chapter 3

“He left without saying goodbye.”

“He just asked me if I wanted a small garden.”

At that time, he kissed his husband’s face and said, “Of course I do, hubby. Then we could plant lots and lots of little veggies!”

Widow Omega touched his face, his hand damp and cold. His voice was light, betraying no sadness, as if the cold winter wind had scattered his emotions and penetrated his life.

Why was he so fixated on a goodbye?

It’s just that when people never meet again, there should at least be a simple farewell.

“You should come with me to see him,” the young officer said as he was leaving.

Widow Omega shook his head. He knew that his husband must have suffered to have clung to life, but being a general from a distinguished family, he would have received the best treatment. And a year ago, he had received the ashes and personal effects, and there had been no word all year, which showed that his husband did not want to see him and did not need his company.

“Find someone else and live a good life,” the messenger soldier said seriously, patting his shoulder, urging him to restrain his grief.

So, Widow Omega finally showed a bit of grievance, “I’m right here, always have been. He doesn’t come to see me; why should I go and be snubbed?”

“I guess my brother must have come, and he can no longer walk,” the young officer thought of his brother, who was confined to a wheelchair and perpetually gloomy, and couldn’t help but speak out in defense.

Widow Omega’s eyes widened, staring silently at the young officer.

“A bit more than a month ago, around New Year’s, he insisted on going out and disappeared for a week before returning. No one knows how he managed to evade his caretakers with his injured leg. I was busy looking for the major at the time and didn’t know the truth, only heard from the butler that when my brother came back, he was completely spiritless.”

“I don’t know if he came looking for you or what happened, but you once comforted me that nothing is too difficult to communicate.”

Perhaps seeing Widow Omega’s ashen face, the young officer insisted, “You could sneak a peek at him.”

“He’s not doing well.”

Widow Omega sat in the military vehicle heading to the airport, his body stiff and cold, lips white with nervousness.

What was he doing before New Year’s? He was distributing flyers at a flower shop. The shop owner wanted to give him flowers, and the people he entangled went to his house. After New Year’s, rumors spread throughout the town that he was hiding an Alpha in his home.

“Do you know that Widow Omega with the soft voice, who can’t even bargain when buying vegetables?”

“Is it that Du Ruo? What happened, has he finally hooked up with Wang Xu?”

“How could he? People from the city have high standards; he wouldn’t fancy a country bumpkin. You don’t know, Du Ruo is incredible, hiding an Alpha in his house. I heard the guy is handsome, can fight, and looks like a young master, no less than the previous one.”

“Ah? His house is so small, they must be sleeping in the same room every day.”

“Exactly, always looking mournful, I used to feel sorry for him and taught him how to garden. Who knew he had such connections, has climbed so high, probably going to move away soon.”

“How do you know that?”

“Of course, his shabby house leaks, there’s a lot of rain in spring and autumn, they have to catch water in buckets. I live next door; how could I not know?”

“But to be honest, not that I’m jealous, but Du Ruo is quite good-looking. He could just rely on his face; I understand why he wouldn’t want to work hard every day moving stuff. If it were me, I wouldn’t like it either.”

…

Widow Omega became the subject of gossip, a way to pass the time during tea and meals, with no one feeling they were doing anything wrong, just making casual jokes, without any real harm intended.

And if the subject of such rumors were to argue back, it would only show guilt or pettiness.

And so, the talk reached the ears of the man.

During New Year’s, when everyone was celebrating and reuniting, nobody noticed that the young master of the Sheng family had left the governor’s mansion.

The man, dragging his injured leg, made several stops and found a kind-hearted villager to bring him back, wanting to catch a glimpse of the person he worried about every day.

He wanted to hold the little painter in his arms, to comfort him properly like before, admitting he came back too late, deserved punishment, explaining how he hadn’t managed everything well and his dreadful father had exploited the situation, talking about their past and future.

And his little painter would surely kiss his face, feeling sorry for him, comforting him, and of course, probably crying too.

At that moment, the light came on, casting the shadows of two figures on the window, one large and one small, indeed as suited to each other as the rumors suggested.

The man used two thick wooden sticks he had found to support his broken body, standing outside the house all night. The slightly salty sea breeze blew over his face, licking the scars and drying the cracks on his lips.

In the tiny space in front of the door, the vegetables were growing well.

His lover had a new life, and he could no longer stand, no longer hold up his own sky.

He had missed his chance, it was time to let go. Making such a decision was more painful than the near-death experience during his capture and torture, but there was no choice. He loved him, loved him enough to give up his career, his own well-being.

In the dim room, no lights were on, the young yet aged man sat by the window, his arms around a brightly colored sweater.

No matter how carefully its owner handled it, it couldn’t avoid fading and wear. It’s the natural law: things decay, people age.

Hesitant footsteps sounded outside, followed by a weak knock, but it didn’t matter, as the person inside never answered, and the door couldn’t be locked from the inside anyway, the outsider always had a key.

The man was thinking about his little painter, that silly boy with long fingers always stained with patchy paint, like colorful flowers on white snow.

That year, the spirited young general admired the painter’s artwork and then admired the painter himself. He spent a fortune just for a smile from the beauty, and the beauty knocked on his door, telling him not to squander money.

“Don’t waste money.” The little painter was nervous, so his face was stern, his tone rigid, as if lecturing.

“Who are you to tell me what to do, only my wife can do that,” the handsome man laughed dazzlingly, while the little painter’s face turned bright red.

“I’m nobody, really, it’s just that my painting isn’t worth that much,” the little painter said softly, his voice like sticky sweet wind wrapped in floral scents, clinging to one’s heart.

The pleasant memory was suddenly interrupted by a voice tinged with sobs.

“You said your name was Sheng Yan, Sheng Shijian, that if I wanted to see you, I just had to tell any ugly stone on the roadside that I missed you, and you would appear.”

“But I’ve told every stone I’ve come across that I miss you, where are you?”

“You big liar!”

“I never wanted a small garden or to live in a big house, you just never listen!”

Then the sticky sweet wind suddenly carried rain, howling, scraping painfully against one’s chest. The sweater slipped from the young man’s lap, and he shook as he turned his wheelchair, instinctively trying to cover his face.

The room was dark, filled with a heavy, desolate air, while the evening’s orange light outside the window refracted through the glass, outlining the shape of a dead end.

“I’m not beautiful anymore, my hands aren’t clean anymore, don’t you want me anymore?” The little painter, who had never cried out loud even when he heard of his husband’s death, suddenly felt an endless grievance.

He kept wiping his tears with his hands, his heart, suspended in the wind, finally showing signs of settling, but it still hurt so much, why did it still hurt so much?

The broken sobbing was like a stab in the heart, the man in the wheelchair looked pained. How could he not want him, how could he possibly not? He never wanted his little painter to shed a tear, but he had still made him cry.

A hoarse voice sounded, like a blade scraping over stone.

“Ruo Ruo, come here, come to me.”