40: Chapter 40 A dilapidated old house, a "strange" returning traveler.

By the time Wang Hanmei had dressed and stepped out of the east room, draped in her old cotton-padded jacket, Shen Du had already entered the kitchen.

He was busy boiling water in an aluminum kettle, its spout encrusted with a thick layer of limescale.

In the dim, yellowish light of the tungsten bulb, Shen Du's gaze swept across the single-story house that held the memories of his two lifetimes.

The house followed an old-fashioned three-room layout.

On the east side was Wang Hanmei's master bedroom, with a small storage area partitioned off at the back using broken wooden planks.

On the west side was the bedroom Shen Du had lived in since childhood, which connected to this kitchen, blackened by soot from the firewood.

The living room in the middle, acting as the "facade" of the house, had an Eight Immortals table with peeling lacquer placed right in the center.

In the corner by the back door sat a grain bin for storing rations.

Shen Du's gaze fell to his feet.

The floor of the room was paved with rough red bricks laid horizontally.

The mountain air was damp.

Whenever it rained, these red bricks would grow damp and seep water, filling the room with moisture.

Memories of his past life flooded back into his mind.

Shen Du remembered that before, when he went to the yard to use the toilet in the middle of the night, he could often see rats scurrying near the grain bin and the corners of the walls.

At this moment, Shen Du, wearing a Bottega Veneta cashmere sweater, stood quietly in the earthen house filled with the dust of time.

The sense of ease brought back from the vanity fair of the Magic City collided with the reality filled with the smell of earth.

Watching his mother's slightly hunched figure as she walked to the Eight Immortals table in the living room and sat down, in the faint light, Shen Du saw her hands, covered in calluses from hard labor.

In Shen Du's sealed memories, Wang Hanmei was not like the local farm women born and raised in the mountains.

She had once been a respectable person.

Years ago, she had been a teacher at the town school, carrying an air of scholarly refinement.

But later, for some unknown reason, she put down her teaching pointer and never stepped onto the podium again.

To make a living, this woman who once held chalk picked up farm tools and scissors.

Relying on sewing and farm work, she had stubbornly supported this family in these mountains.

The old-fashioned bicycle in the corner of the yard, which had been repaired countless times, was the only decent means of transportation in this home.

Shen Du remembered that every day, after Wang Hanmei finished her farm work in the fields, in the evenings or during the off-season, she would ride that broken bicycle to town or neighboring villages to take on mending jobs for old clothes and earn a few bucks for her labor.

Because she couldn't afford a treadle sewing machine, those complicated tasks were all done by hand, stitch by stitch, under that tungsten bulb.

In the depths of these isolated mountains, a single mother had to raise a child amidst gossip.

She even managed to put him through college.

The hardships involved were immeasurable in words.

The old furniture and damp red bricks in this room were etched with this mother's struggle against life.

The spout of the aluminum kettle hissed as it emitted white steam, signaling it was boiling.

Shen Du turned off the stove and pulled open the old cupboard standing in the corner, its wooden doors riddled with wormholes.

His gaze swept through the cupboard, and Shen Du's hand paused for a moment.

On the shelf lined with old newspapers sat several stacks of plates and bowls.

But after searching for a long time, he couldn't even find a single intact glass cup.

The only two enamel mugs had chips in their coating, revealing the iron underneath.

For Shen Du, who was accustomed to crystal glassware, he only chuckled inwardly at this disparity, feeling no disdain.

From the bottom of the cupboard, he took out two old ceramic bowls with chipped edges that were a bit rough to the touch.

"Splash—" The boiling water was poured into the coarse ceramic bowls.

White steam rose up, blurring Shen Du's features.

He wasn't pretentious.

Carrying the chipped ceramic bowls filled with hot water, he turned and walked toward the dim living room.

With ninety million in cash flow in his pocket and a trillion-dollar business blueprint in his mind, yet in his hands, he carried two bowls of plain hot water, as they couldn't even afford proper cups.

Shen Du walked from the kitchen into the living room.

Wang Hanmei sat uneasily by the Eight Immortals table.

In the faint light of the bulb, she stared blankly, scrutinizing the young man before her.

As Shen Du approached, a sense of dissonance surged in Wang Hanmei's heart.

Was this still her son?

Even though his features were familiar, the aura he exuded made Wang Hanmei feel like he was a stranger.

Not to mention the expensive, unbranded clothing he wore; just the way he walked and held the bowls, even his expression was completely different from that timid "poor student" of six months ago.

The old Shen Du had inferiority deep in his bones.

His back always seemed slightly hunched.

But what about the current Shen Du?

He carried the two broken ceramic bowls as if they were jade artifacts.

His steps were steady, his eyes deep.

There was not a trace of the impetuousness of a young man, nor any sign of embarrassment or discomfort at returning to this dilapidated old house.

That composure and aura of treating everything with indifference could not be faked.

As a mother, Wang Hanmei's heart tightened.

She could not imagine.

What kind of tempering one must experience in the outside world to undergo such a complete transformation in just a few months.

He was still a child not yet twenty years old.

What kind of cruel experience could it be to force a timid, poor student into having the calmness of an old man who had experienced half a lifetime of vicissitudes?

Looking at her son before her, doubt and heartache spread in Wang Hanmei's eyes.

"Click." Shen Du placed the two coarse ceramic bowls with chipped edges onto the mottled Eight Immortals table.

He didn't offer any deliberate pleasantries, nor did he show any awkwardness.

Shen Du naturally pulled out the slightly wobbly old bench and sat down beside Wang Hanmei.

His posture was not rigid; he sat with a slight, casual lean backward.

Turning his head, his gaze fell on his mother's face, which was written with the weathering of time.

His tone was gentle: "Mom, I'm sorry for rushing back so late and disturbing your sleep."

This apology rang in Wang Hanmei's ears.

Wang Hanmei's pupils contracted slightly, and her eyes glazed over for a moment.

Was the young man in front of her really her son, the one who would subconsciously lower his head when speaking and was filled with inferiority?

This way of communicating, which was appropriately polite yet calm, gave her a strong illusion.

Sitting before her was not a college student who had been away from home for over half a year, but an aged soul who had experienced half a lifetime of storms and had traveled through time to sit by her side again.

The lamplight flickered, and the room fell into a brief silence.

The more considerate and steady Shen Du appeared, the more the unease and panic in Wang Hanmei's heart grew.

Having once been a teacher on a podium, she was clearer-headed than the farm women in these mountains.

She knew deep down that this temperament—the ability to drive a luxury car with such nonchalance, to display an aura of command even in a dilapidated earthen house—could never be polished by a few books in a college campus.

In these short few months, in that distant Magic City, her son... how many unseen reefs had he stepped over, how much blood had he swallowed, only to trade for this appearance today, which was both reassuring and alarming?