Shen Er's handwriting wasn't gentle and unassuming like his daily demeanor—the strokes carried a decisive, ruthless force that looked ready to slice straight through the rice paper.
I stood beside the desk, staring down at his characters, lost in thought.
I had always suspected Shen Er wasn't as simple as he appeared. I didn't know if it was just my imagination, but it increasingly felt like the version of himself he showed me was only a fraction of the man who actually existed beneath the surface.
"Yuan Yuan, can you write?" He put down his brush and asked.
I shook my head shyly—then remembered he couldn't see, so I had to answer aloud. "I don't know many characters."
For some reason, Shen Er softly sighed.
My face burned with shame. The day I was married off, it had been a transaction of pure necessity. Before I left, my mother had comforted me by saying, At least your new husband is a blind man. He can't look down on you, and he certainly can't bully you.
But standing in front of him now, I felt like I couldn't hold my head up at all.
Shen Er had unmatched looks, a formidable family background, and his calligraphy alone was so exquisite that wealthy patrons actually came to buy his scrolls. I, on the other hand, was just a ruined gambler's daughter who could barely read a shop ledger. What was I compared to him?
Suddenly, a warm pair of hands covered mine. Shen Er's face tilted up, his expression full of tenderness. "I know—you didn't have the chance to learn these things before. From now on, let me teach you. Alright?"
I was stunned into absolute silence.
He looked somewhat shy, the tips of his ears turning a furious red. When I didn't respond for a long time, he muttered my full name nervously. "Zhu Yuan'er... is that alright?"
It was the first time he had ever called me by my full proper name. A strange, fluttering feeling surged through my chest. I finally mumbled in response, "Alright."
Shen Er's relief was immediate—his eyes curved into happy crescents, looking exactly like a child who had just been given sugar.
"The peach tree is young and elegant; brilliant are its flowers," he slowly recited as he guided my hand to write the characters. Unlike his usual sharp, aggressive calligraphy, he had deliberately written these practice characters round and properly proportioned—like chubby infants, making anyone who saw them feel an involuntary surge of warmth.
I muttered the words under my breath as my brush clumsily followed his strokes. "The peach tree is young and elegant; brilliant are its flowers."
After finally managing to finish the crooked line of text, I looked up. My gaze met his sightless eyes—they looked like distant, mist-shrouded green mountains.
"Do you know the next line...?" His voice was impossibly soft, like running water. Even without his sight, his expression was so expectantly tender that I felt like I was going to drown in the sheer sweetness of it.
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