6:30 PM. No rain, but the sky looked like it had cried all day.
Shen Li stepped out of the underpass, arms full of music books. She walked fast, head down, like someone used to making herself small.
She didn't notice the half-open window on the third floor.
But someone inside did.
Lin Tang paused, coffee cup still in her hand, fingers resting gently on the rim.
The girl outside had no expression—pale as paper, eyes unfocused. But as she waited at the crossing, she bit down—hard—on her own hand.
Lin Tang blinked slowly.
She knew what that was.
That was the quiet kind of breaking.
Her lips curved into the softest smile.
She stood, picked up an umbrella, and walked down.
Shen Li walked fast, footsteps splashing softly on the wet pavement.
She didn't notice the open umbrella in front of her—until someone's shoes stopped right in her path.
She froze. Looked up.
And met a pair of eyes that were... impossibly gentle.
"It's about to rain," the woman said softly, almost afraid to startle her. "You don't have an umbrella."
"I don't live far," Shen Li mumbled, stepping slightly aside.
"I know."
Lin Tang smiled—like she'd known her forever.
"You pass by here every evening."
Shen Li's breath caught.
"You… watch me?"
"Sometimes," Lin Tang said, voice warm like sunlight after frost. "You always seem quiet. Like you're trying to hide from the rain… just without a coat."
Shen Li's fingers tightened around her books.
"I don't mean to intrude." Lin Tang gently extended the umbrella toward her. "Just thought… maybe next time, you don't have to be alone in the rain."
It sounded like kindness.
It looked like compassion.
But something inside Shen Li tightened—
like a thread silently pulled taut around her wrist.
How long had this woman been watching her?
What did she actually know?
But Lin Tang didn't press.
She stepped back. Left the umbrella in Shen Li's hand. And walked away.
Shen Li stood there.
She didn't open the umbrella.
And the rain began to fall.
One drop. Two.
Then the whole street was washed in silver.
She looked up.
And her heart—was no longer quiet.
The rain had grown heavier.
Shen Li stood at the corner, holding the white umbrella Lin Tang had just given her. No fuss, no names—just, "You don't have one." As if she weren't a therapist, just a passerby.
But Shen Li didn't leave.
When Lin Tang turned to head back to her clinic, Shen Li suddenly called out,
"…Can I sit inside for a bit?"
Lin Tang looked back, calm and warm. "Of course."
Shen Li gripped the umbrella a little tighter. Her voice lowered, almost defensive:
"I'm not here to wait out the rain. I just… don't want to take your umbrella home. Returning it later would be a hassle."
It sounded indifferent, even irritated—like she wanted to draw a clear line, afraid of being misunderstood.
But Lin Tang only smiled. No trace of rejection in her expression. She stepped aside and opened the door.
"Perfect. There's hot water inside. Since you don't like trouble, I won't give you any."
They entered in silence.
Shen Li took a seat by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. She didn't speak. Lin Tang didn't press her, either. She quietly made two cups of tea and placed one near her.
"Just sitting is fine," she said softly. "This place doesn't force anyone to talk."
Her words were light, but outside, the rain had thickened like a net.
And Shen Li…
She had the strange feeling that something unseen had already begun to wrap itself around her.
Psychological Counseling Center was quiet—only the soft rhythm of rain tapping against the windows.
Lin Tang sat across from her, not too close. Their cups sat between them on the wooden table, the space measured, deliberate but not cold.
"You study music?"
"Mm."
"You teach?"
"And compose a little."
Shen Li's answers were brief, clipped. Clean and distant, like paper dampened by rain—edges curling but still refusing to open. Lin Tang didn't press. She nodded occasionally, smiled lightly. She didn't even ask, "How are you really doing?"
Instead, she spoke of small things.
She mentioned the cat downstairs chewing through her slipper. Talked about a time when, as a child, she was afraid of elevators. Nothing dramatic. Her tone was light, almost lazy—but undeniably warm.
At first, Shen Li just sat there, eyes on the window, silent.
But at some point—quietly, subtly—she began to nod. Once or twice, she even murmured a soft "mm." Not out of politeness, but because… she was listening.
There was one line she remembered clearly.
Lin Tang said:
"Some things don't need fixing. If you just leave them there long enough… they start to feel lighter."
Shen Li didn't respond right away. But inside, the words struck something—like a thread gently tugged.
Not pain.
Just… a sudden stillness.
She lowered her gaze, touched the rim of her cup. Her eyes wandered, softer now.
She didn't dislike Lin Tang. In fact, she was starting to think—her way of talking… was oddly comforting.
Not the kind that says "I understand," or "You'll get through this," or "You have to be strong."
But the kind that quietly, precisely, seems to know where the knots in your heart are—
And never once pulls at them.
Maybe… that'sexactly why the knots start to loosen.