The apartment resonated with the sounds of hammers and chairs scraping against the floor, a rhythmic blend of hope and hard work. Guo Yu stood in the center of the living room with his sleeves rolled up, overseeing two workers as they set up the new furnishings. The sofa had been swapped out for one with softer hues and delicate floral designs, reminiscent of what Mei often described as "real homes" rather than modern apartments. The curtains had also been replaced with pale gold fabric, reflecting sunlight just as she preferred back in Beijing.
Li Na lingered by the doorway, her hands coated in dust from paint samples. "Ma, look," she said, offering a small, hopeful smile. "We chose this wallpaper because it closely resembles the one from your old home."
Mei slowly crossed the room, her gaze sweeping over the walls, the sofa, and the vibrant cushions that felt overly eager to please. She brushed her fingers along the armrest and gave a slight nod — polite but distant.
"It's nice," she finally remarked, her voice lacking warmth. "But the light here isn't right. In Beijing, the morning sun comes from the east. Here, it's too harsh and direct. You can't change that."
Li Na's voice lost its luster. "We can put up sheer curtains, Ma. That might—"
"It's not the curtains," Mei interrupted softly, moving toward the window. "It's the air. The scent. Everything here feels… temporary."
The workers paused, picking up on the tension, while Guo Yu discreetly urged them to continue, pretending not to overhear. He approached Mei, maintaining his composure. "We can modify more things," he suggested cautiously. "If something doesn't feel right, we'll adjust it. We want you to feel at home here."
Mei did not meet his gaze. "Home isn't something you decorate, Guo Yu."
Her statement lingered in the air like dust particles floating in sunlight.
By afternoon, the furniture van had departed, leaving behind an immaculate yet empty house. The walls sparkled, but a heavier silence replaced it.
That evening, Guo Yu joined them at the table, dressed in a neatly pressed light blue shirt with a soft collar, complemented by traditional trousers. His hairstyle, altered to resemble that of older Chinese men, was a subtle nod to respect. Li Na noticed right away.
"You changed," she whispered.He responded with a small smile. "Just wanted to wear something your mother might like."
When Mei entered, she briefly acknowledged him before taking a seat. "Why are you dressed like that? You look uncomfortable."
Guo Yu froze, then laughed softly.
Mei poured herself tea. "Don't do that. Just be yourself. Pretending only makes things worse."
(Her tone wasn't harsh, but it carried a weariness that struck harder than any anger.)
Li Na stared at her plate, feeling a tightness in her throat. Guo Yu offered a faint smile, the kind meant to maintain peace. The dinner went on in silence, the new furniture silently observing the three individuals who no longer shared the same sense of home.
The night enveloped the apartment with a heavy darkness. The new curtains glimmered softly under the streetlight, casting a warm gold hue that only highlighted the chill within the room.
Li Na had gone to bed early. The fatigue on her face had transformed into a silence more painful than tears. The laughter of the workers from earlier had faded away, leaving the house in stillness.
Guo Yu found himself alone in the living room. The lingering scent of paint was sharp and artificial. He ran his fingers along the sleek surface of the new table — smooth, flawless, and seemingly untouched, like something out of a catalog rather than a home.
He glanced toward the hallway, where Mei's door was ajar, a soft beam of light spilling out. He could hear her speaking in a hushed tone, warm and almost tender, but it wasn't directed at him. She was likely on the phone with her sister in Beijing.
"…yes, the garden still has peonies.The sun has been good this year…"
Her voice was vibrant, as though her essence thrived in that distant place. But after she ended the call, the light faded, plunging the room back into silence.
Guo Yu let out a shaky breath and approached the mirror near the entrance — the same one Li Na had insisted they keep post-renovation. The reflection showed a man in the traditional shirt , but the fabric felt constricting, as if he were living someone else's life.
He spoke softly to his reflection, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even when we change everything… nothing reaches her."
(His tone lacked bitterness or anger — it was simply a quiet sense of loss.)
He moved to the window, observing the city lights flickering like distant embers. Outside, countless families were likely enjoying dinner, laughing, and living ordinary lives. Yet within this apartment, love felt like a battle waged in silence.
He recalled Mei's words — "Home isn't something you decorate." He had finally grasped her meaning: for her, home wasn't about walls or furniture, but a moment in time — a version of herself forever anchored in the past.
And how could anyone rival a memory?
Guo Yu turned off the lamp, plunging the living room into near-darkness. He could hear Li Na's soft breathing from the bedroom — fragile, like a delicate thread pulling him back from despair.
He lingered for a moment, watching her through the half-open door, before whispering into the night, almost as a vow:
"If I can't change her world, I'll protect yours."
Outside, the city continued its rhythm, oblivious to the quiet heartbreak unfolding behind the freshly painted walls — a home that radiated effort but felt cold to touch .