HNYWEF -Chapter 204 What’s There to Hide

The carriage stopped at the gates of the marquis’s residence.

Zhou Xiong got down first and strode inside.

Zhou Yi followed behind him, passed through the screen wall, went around the corridor, and arrived at his own room. He pushed the door open and went in.

The light inside was a little dimmer than outside. He closed the door, loosened his belt, and took off his outer robe, draping it over the back of a chair.

It had been a busy day. His skin felt sticky and uncomfortable—sweat had dried and been replaced by more sweat, again and again, leaving him restless all over.

He walked over to the washstand. The water in the copper basin had been changed by Old Chen that morning, still clear and bright.

He soaked a cloth, wrung it halfway dry, and untied the strings of his undergarment. He took it off and hung it on the stand’s crossbar.

The water in the basin rippled, reflecting his upper body.

Sixteen years old—his shoulders had broadened again compared to last year. The lines across his chest and arms were more defined now, built from years of morning training and ironworking.

On his left arm was a scar, running from shoulder to elbow. It had been stitched before and healed well, leaving only a faint pink line—like a thin centipede lying across his arm.

He glanced at it, then picked up the wet cloth, about to wipe himself down.

The door opened.

Not knocked—just pushed straight open.

Zhou Yi’s hand jerked. He quickly pressed the wet cloth over his left arm and stepped half a pace to the side, turning his back toward the doorway.

The movement was so fast he barely registered it himself, as if his body had acted on its own.

The room fell silent for a moment.

Then he heard a laugh.

Not a soft, half-smile kind of laugh—but an actual sound, full of helplessness, and a “I knew it” sort of amusement.

Zhou Yi froze. Slowly, he turned his head.

Zhou Xiong was standing at the door, holding a bowl of tea—probably taken from the kitchen without anyone noticing.

He looked at Zhou Yi, then at the hand covering his left arm, then at the edge of the scar peeking out beneath the wet cloth. His smile grew more obvious.

“You little brat,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy, but every word clear. “What, you think your old man’s stitching is ugly?”

Zhou Yi stood there, still covering his arm, mouth slightly open. His mind went blank with a “buzz.”

He had expected something else. When his father saw that scar, he thought he would be reminded of that Japanese man, of what happened that day, of all the chaos—and then his expression would go empty, clouded, collapsing back into that man crouched in a corner holding his head.

He thought his father would break down.

But no.

His father stood at the door, tea bowl in hand, smiling and asking if he thought the stitching was ugly.

That tone, that expression—it was exactly the same as when Zhou Yi was a child and messed up his ironwork, and his father would walk over, glance at it, and say, “What the hell did you even make?”

Zhou Yi slowly lowered his hand.

The wet cloth hung by his side, dripping onto the floor, forming a dark patch.

The scar was fully exposed now—from shoulder to elbow, faint pink, with neat rows of stitching still visible.

Zhou Xiong glanced at it, then at Zhou Yi’s stunned face.

He set the tea bowl down on the table and walked over, stopping in front of him. He lowered his head to look at the scar.

“It healed well,” he said. His voice was still rough, but softer than before.

He reached out and lightly pressed his fingers against the scar.

Zhou Yi’s arm tensed, but he didn’t pull away. Zhou Xiong’s fingers traced down along the scar from top to bottom in a quick motion, as if he was embarrassed to linger too long.

“Not bad,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Wasn’t stitched for nothing.”

Then he turned, picked up the tea bowl again, took a sip, and walked out.

At the doorway, he suddenly stopped without turning back.

“Wash up and come eat. Don’t dawdle.”

With that, he stepped over the threshold. His footsteps echoed down the corridor and faded away.

Zhou Yi stood there, still holding the wet cloth.

Water dripped from his fingers onto the ground—one drop, two drops, three drops.

He remained motionless, his mind replaying that moment over and over again: his father standing at the door, tea bowl in hand, smiling and saying, “What, you think your old man’s stitching is ugly?” That tone, that expression, that blunt, matter-of-fact way of talking.

He remembered what Xie Yandeng had said.

“Next time you see your father, he should be better.”

He hadn’t fully believed it then. Uncle Cheng had cursed, saying it was nonsense, and he had stayed silent. He hadn’t known who to trust.

Now he knew.

When his father stood at the doorway, holding a teacup and laughing as he scolded him, he saw it.

Those eyes were not empty, not muddled, not burned through. They were alive.

The kind of alive that could scold, could laugh, could joke with him.

It was fine.

It really was fine.

Zhou Yi stood there, suddenly feeling a sting in his eyes. He couldn’t explain why it stung. He lowered his head and looked at the piece of coarse cloth in his hand. Water was still dripping from it. He tossed it into the basin. Water splashed up, spraying onto his clothes. He didn’t dodge.

He stood in front of the basin rack, staring into the copper bowl.

The water rippled, reflecting his face. That face showed no expression, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

He wiped his body dry with a clean cloth, put on fresh clothes, and pushed the door open, heading toward the main hall. As he crossed the courtyard, a cool evening breeze poured in from the alley, brushing past him.

He walked unhurriedly, but each step was steady.

Inside the main hall, the lamps were already lit.

Warm yellow light spilled out through the windows, falling onto the corridor outside.

He lifted the curtain and entered. His father was already seated at the table, two sets of bowls and chopsticks laid out, though the dishes had not yet been served. Seeing Zhou Yi come in, he tilted his chin toward the opposite seat.

“Sit.”

Zhou Yi sat down.

Father and son faced each other. Neither spoke. From the kitchen came the sound of old Chen stir-frying vegetables—sizzle, sizzle. The aroma drifted through the crack in the door, making one’s stomach rumble.

Zhou Xiong lifted his teacup, took a sip, and set it down. He looked at Zhou Yi for a moment—two breaths of silence—then suddenly spoke.

“That scar of yours,” he said casually, voice low, “you can’t really see it unless you look closely.”

Zhou Yi froze slightly. He lowered his head and looked at his left arm. Through the sleeve, nothing could be seen.

But he knew it was there.

A faint pink line. Fine. Neatly stitched.

He raised his head and looked at his father. Zhou Xiong had already picked up his teacup again and was drinking, eyes turned elsewhere, as if he hadn’t been the one to speak.

The corner of Zhou Yi’s mouth moved slightly.

“Mm,” he said.

Old Chen brought the dishes in. Zhou Xiong picked up his chopsticks, took a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

Zhou Yi also picked up his chopsticks and ate. He chewed while watching his father.

His father ate with his head lowered, at an even pace, just like before.

But something was different.

When he picked up dishes, he would glance toward Zhou Yi—not the kind of stare that pins you down, but the kind that checks whether you’re eating enough. After looking, he would lower his head again and continue eating.

Zhou Yi shoveled rice into his mouth. As he chewed, he suddenly felt that this meal was different from before. He couldn’t say exactly how—it just was.

After dinner, Old Chen cleared the dishes.

Zhou Xiong stood up and walked to the doorway, standing under the corridor eaves, looking outside.

The sky was completely dark. The moon had just risen, hanging faintly at the edge of the sky.

Zhou Yi walked over and stood beside him. Father and son stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the moon.

It was bright. It lit up the roof tiles, the locust tree in the courtyard, and the blue-gray bricks under the corridor.

Zhou Xiong didn’t speak. Zhou Yi didn’t speak either. They just stood there, quietly looking at the moon.

After a long while, Zhou Xiong finally spoke.

“Your mother,” he said softly, “also liked looking at the moon.”

He stared at it for a moment longer, then turned and walked back inside.

“It’s late,” his voice drifted out from ahead. “Go to sleep.”

The curtain lifted, then fell back down, swaying once before going still.

Zhou Yi stood under the corridor, looking at the curtain.

He stood there for a while, then lifted his head and looked once more at the moon.

It was still hanging there, pale and distant. He looked at it for a few breaths.

Then he turned and walked toward his room.

The lantern under the corridor swayed in the wind, its light and shadow trembling on the ground before steadying again.

His footsteps echoed on the blue-gray bricks, growing softer, until they could no longer be heard.

The courtyard fell silent. Only the wind through the locust tree remained—rustling, rustling.