Volume One: Scroll of Fresh Rain Chapter Thirteen: The Boy Who Chased the Sun

Ye Mingke, heart pounding with anxiety, slipped past the sallow-faced middle-aged woman and entered through the heavy door. The moment he crossed the threshold, there was a muffled thud behind him—the woman had slammed the door shut with a decisive hand.

Ye Mingke’s heart involuntarily skipped a beat.

He looked up to find himself in a broad courtyard, yet the space was cramped by a large red and a large green vat for dyeing cloth, and seven or eight towering racks draped with fabric drying in the spring chill. The scene made the once spacious courtyard seem stifling and narrow.

By the vats stood a thin, shirtless middle-aged man, clad only in coarse cloth trousers, dyeing fabric with care. His hands, resting on the rim of the vat, were stained a mottled red and green by the dyes—a sight that inspired unease.

Upon spotting the man, Ye Mingke quickly greeted him, “Good day, Uncle.”

The man gave a slow, wooden nod, his gaze briefly flickering to Mingke before returning silently to the cloth before him.

The sallow-faced woman strode past Mingke without a glance, planting herself in the courtyard and shouting with hands on hips toward the inner rooms.

“You wretched, luckless jinx, you shameless little brat! Stop that wailing in there—your lover’s here! Get out here this instant!”

The words dripped with venom.

Ye Mingke, already ill at ease, felt a rush of anger surge to his head—indignant at such insults, both for himself and for Qiao Qiao, who was so mercilessly belittled.

“Auntie, I’m just a friend of Qiao Qiao’s, and she is not the calamity you claim her to be,” he said, standing tall, meeting the woman’s withering gaze with suppressed fury in his voice.

“Oh? And what do you know?” The woman sneered, glancing back at Mingke, a flicker of surprise at his defiance, though her face remained unashamedly sharp and mean.

“I know that Qiao Qiao lost her parents the day she was born. I know about her illness, and I know she’s brought you hardship. But none of that is her fault.”

Ye Mingke stared into those dead-fish eyes, unwavering despite her ridicule.

He remembered the girl who, in front of the mountain god’s statue, had begged for punishment to fall on her alone, sparing even a friend she had only just met.

That girl, whose hidden shadows were eclipsed by a heart as pure and crystalline as glass.

“Oh? And what do you know?” The woman looked away from Mingke’s steady gaze, but her tone was still steeped in scorn and mockery.

“I…” The rest of his words stuck in his throat, the anger caught, unable to find release.

“Mingke.”

A hoarse voice came from the back room. Through the hanging veils of fabric, Qiao Qiao appeared, standing in the courtyard, looking toward Mingke by the door.

She was still the same quiet, delicate girl in a white dress, but her eyes were swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears—she had clearly been crying.

Separated by several meters, the two looked at each other.

Two people who, when apart, worried for and fought for each other, now fell silent when face to face.

“Are you feeling better?” After a moment, Qiao Qiao asked softly.

“I’m fine now. Are you alright?” Mingke replied.

“I’m alright,” she answered quietly.

Again, silence. The distance between them seemed insurmountable, and the woman standing between them watched with eyes sharp as daggers.

So they said nothing.

Qiao Qiao lowered her head, staring at the hem of her dress clutched tightly in her fingers, her eyes reddening again.

These days, locked away in this oppressive house, she hadn’t even known if he had awoken from his coma. She had been imprisoned, unable to see him, tormented by worry.

How lucky that he was well, that he had come to see her. But she was ashamed that he had to hear those cruel words hurled at her. What would he think of her now? Would he still want to see her again?

“Well, you’ve seen her. She’s fine. You can go now,” the woman snapped, her bulging eyes fixed on Mingke.

Qiao Qiao whipped her head up to look at him, her gaze frightened and lost, like a fawn in the forest.

Was this goodbye forever?

“Auntie, I’d like to take Qiao Qiao out for a bit. We’ll be back soon,” Mingke said, his clear eyes full of sincerity as he met that unsettling stare.

“No!” the woman barked.

“I want to go!” Qiao Qiao’s voice overlapped almost at the same instant.

She looked up at the woman’s sallow, shadowed face, her right hand clutching her dress, chin lifted slightly in stubborn defiance, her reddened eyes unyielding.

“No means no. Boy, get out of here,” the woman snapped, pointing coldly at the door, then moved to grab Qiao Qiao’s arm.

“Get back inside, you little brat!”

As the woman’s figure threatened to block their view of each other, Qiao Qiao suddenly turned her head, fixing Mingke with her stubborn, tear-bright eyes, mouthing silent words.

“Qiao Qiao—this way!”

Mingke, until now frozen, sprang into action. He lunged forward, bending low, just as Qiao Qiao tore her arm free and ran toward him.

She dashed a few steps, then leapt with arms outstretched, her white skirt flaring as she launched herself onto his back. Mingke, charging forward, caught her perfectly.

She clung to his back, as she had in that rain-soaked forest when the hungry tiger gave chase.

In that brief, wordless exchange of glances, her reddened eyes had shaped the silent plea: “Take me away.”

So he had come.

“You brat!”

The woman’s curses rang out as Mingke, with Qiao Qiao on his back, dashed to the courtyard wall.

He planted a foot on the bricks and leapt, arm stretching upward. At the last possible moment, he caught the top of the wall and, with a grunt, hauled them both over.

“Uncle, Auntie, I’m sorry—we’ll be back soon!” Mingke called, even as Qiao Qiao’s delighted cry mingled with his words as they dropped to the other side.

The woman, beside herself with fury, flung open the door and ran into the street, but the boy and girl had already vanished like the wind.

The courtyard fell silent for a long moment.

“That shameless brat…”

“After all these years, what have we raised her for?”

“We never should have taken her in.”

“She should have died with her parents…”

Fuming, the woman stomped back inside, cursing all the while, and sank down on the threshold, her anger unspent.

In the courtyard, the man by the dye vats calmly hauled out another length of cloth. Hearing the woman’s tirade, he glanced up, his voice flat and emotionless.

“You should have built the wall higher.”

“Yes!” she snapped, slapping her thigh. “Ten stories high, so even if that brat could climb up, the fall would kill those two little miscreants.”

“You should have put broken glass on top.”

“Yes—glass on the wall, iron spikes below! That’d finish them off!” She slapped her thigh again, growing ever more convinced.

“Still not enough. Roof over the yard, seal the doors and windows, put a gravestone at the entrance,” the man added.

“Right—a roof, a gravestone—wait, what?” She stopped mid-rant and rounded on him. “You old fool, are you mocking me?”

“If you don’t want to turn the house into a tomb, why act like it’s a crime for a living soul to step outside?” he replied.

The man lifted another piece of cloth and hung it on a rack, turning to her.

“Don’t worry. It’s different now.”

“All those who coveted little Qiao Qiao are gone—dead or driven from town.”

“You don’t have to be so suspicious anymore.”

“And another thing,” he said, turning his back and hanging up the cloth. “Let go of the past. Don’t blame Qiao Qiao for what happened back then.”

“And even if you do—after all these years, all the time you’ve raised her, surely that’s enough to cancel it out.”

The woman sat in the doorway, the afternoon sun highlighting the white in her disheveled hair and the deep lines on her sallow face, making her ugliness all the starker.

She fell silent, no longer cursing, lost in thought for a long while before getting up with a muttered curse.

“If I really hated her that much, would she have lived this long?” she grumbled, turning as usual to close the door.

“Leave it open,” the man called suddenly.

She looked back, and for the first time, a gentle smile flickered across his wooden features. “Don’t close it—the girl hasn’t come home yet.”

…

…

As Mingke and Qiao Qiao scrambled over the wall, they heard the woman’s furious curses behind them, but Mingke ran on with all his might.

He ran so fast that the woman could never catch them, her curses fading behind, all their worries and sadness left in the dust.

Both of them burst out laughing, wild and carefree. Whatever awaited them when they stopped, for now they had a freedom and joy no one could take away.

“Qiao Qiao, where do you want to go?” Mingke shouted over the rush of wind, as if he could carry her to the ends of the earth.

“I just want to keep running like this—forever, never to be caught!” Qiao Qiao cried, clinging to his back.

“Alright!” Mingke answered, his voice ringing out with certainty, his eyes bright and clear, as if the farthest horizon and eternity were within reach.

That day, Ye Mingke carried Bai Qiao Qiao on his back, stepping over the rain-splattered cobblestones of the town, running beneath the bright spring sun through every street.

They went to see the ivy-clad bell tower, calling up to Tao Yao before dashing away, laughing as the boy emerged, scratching his head in confusion.

They visited the town’s oldest well, where, with Mingke shielding her, Qiao Qiao pretended to throw a stone in, teasing the old man guarding the well until he chased them down the street waving his spade.

They explored the crumbling temple at the town’s edge, debating its differences from the ruined mountain shrine.

They splashed through puddles, and whenever the townsfolk smiled and whispered at their antics, Mingke would run even faster, carrying a blushing Qiao Qiao away so that the wind swallowed all gossip and trouble.

But no matter how fast the boy ran, they could not outrun time.

Dusk was falling.

Lying on Mingke’s back, Qiao Qiao watched the blazing clouds at the horizon, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“Is it time to go back, Mingke?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

“Let’s wait a bit longer,” Mingke replied, gazing at the crimson sun, a trace of sorrow in his heart, though he forced cheer into his voice. “I haven’t taken you to my favorite place yet.”

He glanced at the sky, gauged the distance, and, chasing the setting sun, ran as if he could outrace time itself.