The package stayed on the coffee table for three days.
It sat there like a fifth person in the room. Small. Wrapped neatly. Quietly loud.
Jiang Yue tried not to look at it. He failed constantly.
Wei tried harder. Wei succeeded in the way he always succeeded: by acting like it didn't exist until acting became reality.
Their mother dusted around it once, then stopped. She didn't move it. She didn't ask about it again. She just let it sit, as if touching it would make something worse.
Wei Chengyu didn't mention it at all.
Which meant he was thinking about it.
He was the type of man who didn't speak when he was deciding what kind of damage control he needed.
At school, Wei was normal. Perfectly normal.
Answered questions. Wrote notes. Smiled politely when teachers praised him. Looked like the phone call and the visit had never happened.
That performance scared Jiang Yue more than any outburst would have.
Because the blankness Wei used wasn't calm. It was containment.
On the fourth evening, Jiang Yue came home to find Wei alone in the living room.
Their parents were out—grocery run, maybe. Something normal.
The apartment smelled like detergent and the faint trace of soup.
Wei sat in the armchair again, the same one he'd sat in during the visit, posture straight, hands resting on his thighs.
The package was still on the coffee table.
But now it was unwrapped.
The paper lay folded neatly beside it, like evidence.
Inside was a small, worn photo album.
Not new. Not shiny. The kind of album you carried through moves and still didn't throw away, even when you told yourself you were done with the past.
Wei wasn't looking at the album.
He was looking at nothing.
Jiang Yue stopped in the doorway.
Wei's gaze lifted.
They met eyes.
Wei's expression was calm, but his eyes were tired in a way Jiang Yue had started recognizing as dangerous.
"You opened it," Jiang Yue said quietly.
Wei nodded once.
Jiang Yue stepped closer, slow, like he was approaching a skittish animal.
He didn't sit yet.
He didn't want to invade.
He just stood by the edge of the sofa and looked at the album.
The cover was plain. Dark blue.
No title.
"Is it… photos," Jiang Yue asked.
Wei's throat moved. "Yes."
Silence.
Jiang Yue waited. Let Wei choose the next step.
Wei's fingers moved, almost reluctantly, and he opened the album.
The first page had a family photo.
Wei as a little kid—maybe six or seven—small, serious, dark hair too neatly combed. His mother crouched beside him, smiling. His father stood behind them, one hand on Wei's shoulder, expression restrained even in a photo.
They looked like a family that could have lasted.
They didn't.
Wei flipped the page.
More photos. Holidays. A birthday cake. A school performance.
In each one, Wei looked… controlled. Even as a child. Like he'd already learned that looking good mattered.
Jiang Yue's chest tightened.
Wei flipped another page.
The photos stopped being happy gradually. The smiles got smaller. The distance between his parents in the photos grew.
Then one page was empty except for a single photo tucked into the corner: Wei at fifteen, standing in front of the school gate, wearing his uniform, holding an award certificate. His father stood beside him, hand on his shoulder.
No mother.
Wei's fingers paused there.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Jiang Yue sat down on the sofa without thinking, close enough to see but not close enough to touch. He kept his hands on his knees, still.
Wei's voice came low. "She took the album when she left."
Jiang Yue blinked. "Then… why is it here."
Wei's mouth twisted. "She said she wanted me to have it."
Jiang Yue swallowed. "Maybe she thought it would—"
"Fix it," Wei finished, flat.
Jiang Yue didn't argue.
Because that was exactly what the album was: an attempt at fixing.
A proof of love in paper form, offered late, because the giver was too afraid to offer the harder thing—time.
Wei stared at the photo of fifteen-year-old Wei.
Then he said quietly, almost slipping into honesty, "I used to think if I kept winning, she would come back."
Jiang Yue's throat burned.
Wei continued, voice controlled but thin. "My father told me not to think about it. He said leaving was her choice. He said I should focus."
Jiang Yue nodded slowly. He could hear Wei Chengyu's voice in that sentence.
Wei's gaze stayed on the photo. "So I focused."
Silence.
Jiang Yue's hands clenched slightly, then relaxed. "And when she didn't come back," Jiang Yue said carefully, "you kept focusing anyway."
Wei's eyes lifted to him.
Something sharp flickered there—recognition, maybe. Or the irritation of being understood too well.
"Yes," Wei said.
Jiang Yue's chest ached. He looked down at the album again.
"Did she write anything," Jiang Yue asked.
Wei reached into the back sleeve of the album and pulled out a folded letter.
His hand paused, hovering.
Then he handed it to Jiang Yue without looking at him.
Jiang Yue froze.
"Me?" he whispered.
Wei's voice was quiet. "Read it."
Jiang Yue swallowed hard and took the letter.
The paper was thin, the handwriting careful.
Not Wei's.
His mother's.
Jiang Yue unfolded it and read.
Nianzhan,
I'm sorry.
I know this word is too small.
I left because I was weak. Because I didn't know how to stay and not break. Because I thought you would be better without seeing me fall apart.
I was wrong.
You didn't deserve my absence as a lesson.
You didn't deserve to grow up thinking love disappears when things get hard.
I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't expect you to call me Mom.
I just want you to know: I have thought about you every day. I have regretted it every day.
If you ever want to see me, I will come. If you never want to, I will stop.
I will follow your choice this time.
Love,
Mom
Jiang Yue's vision blurred.
He blinked hard and kept his face neutral like a trained actor.
He folded the letter and held it out to Wei.
Wei took it, fingers steady.
His expression didn't change.
But his throat moved.
Jiang Yue saw the muscle in his jaw jump once, as if he'd bitten down on something that wanted to escape.
"What do you think," Jiang Yue asked, voice barely audible.
Wei stared at the letter in his hand.
Then he said, "It's… better than nothing."
Jiang Yue flinched internally.
That sentence contained too much.
Better than nothing meant it wasn't enough.
Better than nothing meant he wanted more and hated himself for it.
Wei set the letter back inside the album and closed it carefully, like closing it would contain the pain too.
He placed the album back on the coffee table.
The package was now a package of memories, unwrapped and still heavy.
Wei leaned back in the armchair and stared at the ceiling.
Jiang Yue watched him, chest tight.
"You don't have to decide today," Jiang Yue said softly.
Wei's gaze flicked to him. "You already said that."
Jiang Yue nodded. "Still true."
Wei was silent for a long moment.
Then his voice came low, the control fraying just enough to let one honest line slip through.
"I hate that I still want her," Wei said.
The sentence hit Jiang Yue like a punch.
He stared at Wei.
Wei's jaw tightened, eyes bright for half a second, then flat again.
"I hate that it makes me feel stupid," Wei added.
Jiang Yue's throat burned. He shook his head. "It's not stupid."
Wei's gaze sharpened. "It is."
Jiang Yue leaned forward, voice rough. "No. It's normal."
Wei stared at him.
Jiang Yue held his gaze. "Wanting your mom is normal," Jiang Yue said. "Even if she doesn't deserve it."
Wei's breathing changed, slower, heavier.
For a moment, it looked like he might break.
He didn't.
He just nodded once, tiny.
And somehow that nod felt like a trust given.
A few minutes later, the front door opened.
Their mother's voice called from the hallway, cheerful. "We're back!"
Wei straightened instantly, mask snapping on.
Jiang Yue sat back, casual posture returning like a costume.
Wei Chengyu walked in carrying grocery bags. His gaze flicked to the coffee table.
To the unwrapped paper.
To the album.
His expression tightened slightly.
Wei spoke first, calm. "She left something. I opened it."
Wei Chengyu nodded once, stiff. "Put it away."
Wei didn't argue.
He picked up the album and carried it to his room.
Jiang Yue watched him go.
Not the neat movement, not the controlled steps.
The way his shoulders were just a fraction lower than usual, like he was carrying weight that wasn't paper.
Wei Chengyu looked at Jiang Yue briefly. "Homework," he said, as if the word could restore order.
Jiang Yue nodded. "Yeah."
Their mother glanced between them, then smiled too brightly, trying to keep the air warm. "I'll start dinner."
Life resumed.
Normal performance.
But later that night, when the apartment was quiet and Jiang Yue was in bed, he heard soft footsteps in the hallway.
A pause outside his door.
Then Wei's voice, low and careful through the wood.
"Thanks."
Just one word.
Jiang Yue swallowed hard.
He didn't answer out loud.
He didn't need to.
He lay there in the dark and let the word settle in his chest, warm and heavy.
Because in this house, thank you wasn't just gratitude.
It was proof.
Proof that Wei Nianzhan noticed who stayed.