Rain cascaded from the heavens, drumming against the tin roof of that forsaken two-story cottage on the town's edge, its lamentations echoing like a sorrowful dirge, as if the very essence of nature were composing a symphony for the tragedy within. Eight-year-old Lin Yueying huddled in the dim recesses of the closet, the damp boards biting into her skin, a pungent blend of mildew and ancient dust assaulting her senses, while the air hung heavy with the acrid tang of her father's liquor. Outside, the wind whipped the rain against the windows in a relentless rhythm, a "whoosh and patter" that seemed to mock her despair. From the living room, her father's roar shattered the silence, making the walls quiver: "You useless thing! Can't you even make a proper meal?"
Lin Yueying clenched her lower lip between her teeth, tears tracing dirty paths down her cheeks, afraid that any sound might unleash a greater tempest. Her small hands clutched a tattered blanket, her body trembling involuntarily. The room reeked of grease and sweat, the flickering glow of a dim bulb casting wavering shadows that deepened the gloom. Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across her chest, her eyes as vacant as a stagnant pool. "Don't cry, Yueying," she whispered, her voice fragile as a leaf in the wind, "he's just had too much to drink. It will pass soon."
"Pass? You say that every time, Mama!" Lin Yueying finally mustered, her retort a quivering whisper laced with defiance. She lifted her gaze, her eyes sparking with fury in the faint light. Her mother sighed, kneeling beside the closet to gently stroke her hair. "Child, life is like this. We must endure. The sun will rise tomorrow." Yet Lin Yueying knew her mother's words were as precarious as thin ice, liable to crack at any moment. She recalled the previous week: her father had erupted over a pair of unpolished shoes, pinning her to the floor as his palm struck like a storm, the whoosh of each blow searing into her memory, the burning pain spreading like wildfire across her skin. Now, the bruises lingered on her legs, a dull ache that she probed with her fingers, stifling any cry.
"Why is it always me? Why can't I be like the others?" she pondered silently, her vision blurred by tears. Outside, the rain softened to a whisper, yielding to the wind's mournful howl, and she envisioned herself as a fragile leaf boat adrift in the tempest. Her father's footsteps drew nearer, each one a thunderclap, and she held her breath, praying he would not find her. Abruptly, the door was yanked open, his bloodshot eyes glaring down: "Still hiding? Come out!" His voice boomed like thunder, the stench of alcohol overwhelming, nearly suffocating her.
She was hauled from the closet and flung onto the living room floor, the wooden boards cold and unyielding, etched with layers of dust and footprints. Curling into a ball, she felt his shoe slam down beside her. "Look at you, filthy as a beggar!" he bellowed, raising his hand. Her mother rushed forward, grasping his arm: "Don't hit her—she's just a child!" He wheeled on her, snarling: "Shut your mouth! It's your fault for spoiling her!"
In that instant, Lin Yueying's mind flooded with images of school: the joyous laughter of her classmates echoing across the playground, while she sat alone in a corner, nibbling her lunch, the aroma of meals mingling with the scent of chalk and grass, yet tasting like ash. A teacher had inquired, "Yueying, what happened to your arm?" She forced a smile: "Nothing, teacher, I fell." But inside, it felt like a blade twisting, knowing no one truly understood. On the walk home, she picked wildflowers from the roadside, imagining they might offer a sliver of warmth.
That night, the rain ceased, and moonlight filtered through the cracked window. Lin Yueying lay on her bed, staring at the fissures in the ceiling, listening to her father's snores rumbling like distant thunder. She resolved that she could not continue this way. The next day, when her father sent her on an errand to the neighbors, she trudged along the muddy path, her body weary. The post-rain air was crisp, birds chirping in the trees, and she drew a deep breath, savoring a fleeting sense of freedom.
The Li family estate loomed at the town's far end, its gardens ablaze with blooming roses, their fragrance sweet and inviting. As she rang the doorbell, hesitation gripped her. Mr. Li opened the door, warm light spilling from behind him, his kindly smile illuminating her world like the dawn. "Little girl, who are you?" he asked, his voice gentle as a flowing stream.
"I... I'm here to borrow something," she murmured, her voice scarcely above a whisper. He noticed the bruises, his eyes narrowing: "Come in, don't stand there. The wind is strong after the rain." Inside, a fire crackled in the hearth, its pops and crackles filling the air, waves of heat enveloping her. She settled into a chair, sipping hot tea, the aromatic steam rising like a comforting veil. Mr. Li knelt before her: "Tell me, what happened? No one should treat a child this way."
She choked out fragments of the truth, and he nodded gravely: "From now on, this is your home. Come anytime." Li Chen descended from upstairs, the ten-year-old eyeing her curiously: "Uncle, who's this?" Mr. Li introduced: "This is Yueying, a friend from now on."
"Hi, I'm Li Chen. Want to play?" He took her hand, leading her to the garden. The wind rustled through the leaves with a soft whisper, and they chased butterflies, her laughter ringing out for the first time. "Aren't you afraid of me?" she asked. He shook his head: "No, you're brave." Their conversation unfolded, the garden becoming her sanctuary. From that day, she visited regularly, the birdsong and floral scents a balm to her soul, Li Chen's companionship a ray of sunlight.
As time wove its tapestry, their friendship deepened. He taught her to climb trees: "Be careful, hold onto this branch." She nodded, the wind brushing her ears with the fresh scent of foliage. "Li Chen, why are you so kind?" she asked. He pondered: "Because you deserve it. Tell me, what's your home like?" She fell silent, and he didn't press: "It's okay, take your time."
By the time Lin Yueying reached eighteen, her father's outbursts had waned, and in the Li household, she found her strength. Li Chen's encouragement shone like a beacon, guiding her forward.