Yan An was a Perfect Art

The room was small, barely thirteen square feet, with a modest layout. A medium-sized bed stood in the center, accompanied by a wooden table with an incandescent bulb that cast a dim, yellowish glow.

Opposite the bed, an old-fashioned 24-inch TV sat on a cabinet. Though outdated, it had a certain antique charm, as if it belonged to a time when things were simpler. Next to it, a tall bookshelf stretched toward the ceiling, its upper planks lined with neatly arranged books. Below, on the table beneath the shelves, two empty bottles of expensive wine and a box of cookies—also emptied—rested in careless abandon.

A slow, rhythmic ticking filled the silence. It came from an old clock hanging above the TV, its hands frozen in their steady march toward 8:00 AM. The time read 7:55 AM.

On the bed, Jiang Yanxu sat motionless. His posture was slack, his gaze unfocused. He had been like this for hours, lost in the quiet abyss of his thoughts.

The events of the morning replayed in his mind like a broken film reel—scattered, chaotic, relentless. His temples throbbed. He reached up, massaging the bridge of his nose, but the dull ache refused to subside.

A sigh escaped him. His weary eyes lifted sluggishly, only to land on a small bedside calendar. Without thinking, he reached for it.

A single date was circled in red ink.

April 11th.

Jiang Yanxu recognized it immediately. The cruise would dock at the port that day.

Ye Xinren had marked it last night as a reminder.

His fingers lingered over the inked circle. There was no anticipation in his expression, no excitement at the thought of reaching their destination. All he wanted was to go home.

The silence around him was suddenly broken.

The door creaked open.

Jiang Yanxu's head turned instinctively, his blank gaze meeting the figure stepping inside. Ye Xinren.

But he did not react.

There was no flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. No warmth, no anger. Nothing.

Ye Xinxin felt it the moment their gazes met.

Back then, Jiang Yanxu had loved him with the kind of devotion that could move mountains. He would have given him the world.

But in the end, reality took everything from him. Even love.

Now, all that remained was a wound—deep, raw, and unhealing.

Ye Xinren hesitated at the doorway, his expression stiff with uncertainty. His mother-in-law and brother-in-law had warned him not to approach Jiang Yanxu, but he couldn't just walk away.

He had to try.

Summoning his resolve, he stepped forward. The sound of his footsteps was soft against the wooden floor.

Stopping beside the bed, Ye Xinren reached out hesitantly and rested a hand on Jiang Yanxu's shoulder. His touch was gentle, his voice softer still.

"I can tell something's wrong. Just tell me. What's the matter?" Ye Xinren asked.

Jiang Yanxu glanced at him, his expression empty.

Then, he looked away.

The dismissal was clear, but Ye Xinren refused to leave.

Instead, he exhaled slowly and said, "Shen Ke mentioned that there's trouble with Jiang-shi Company. But I know that's not the only thing bothering you. You've faced worse situations at that company, and you've never looked like this. There's something else, isn't there?"

His words hung in the air, unanswered.

"Talk to me. We'll figure it out together—"

"You're the problem, actually."

The sudden interruption was sharp, cutting through the room like a blade.

Jiang Yanxu's voice, once steady, cracked with barely contained frustration.

"If you're just here to ask that sh*t, then get out."

Ye Xinren froze.

But his expression remained calm.

He didn't react to the anger. Instead, he studied Jiang Yanxu's face—taking in the exhaustion, the shadows beneath his eyes, the hollowness in his gaze.

A moment later, he sat down beside him.

Then, without hesitation, Ye Xinren leanded his head againts Jiang Yanxu's shoulder.

His voice was soft, almost teasing. "So, you're mad at me. Is it because I told Mom?"

Jiang Yanxu stiffened.

Ye Xinren, however, seemed unfazed. He sighed, almost regretfully. "Alright. My bad. I shouldn't have told her."

Jiang Yanxu blinked.

That was ... unexpected.

No stubborn arguments. No childish complaints.

Just ... an apology.

A rare moment of submission from Ye Xinren.

Silence stretched between them.

Then, at last, Jiang Yanxu spoke, "You know I'm not close to them. Don't involve them in our business. Don't do it again."

Ye Xinren nodded once. "Got it."

He sounded obedient.

Jiang Yanxu studied him from the corner of his eye. Something about Ye Xinren felt different today, but he didn't have the energy to dwell on it.

With a quiet sigh, he placed the calendar back on the bedside table.

Ye Xinren watched him, his gaze drifting to the date he had marked.

Then, suddenly, he spoke, "After we arrive in the first country, take me to the art gallery."

Jiang Yanxu stilled.

Before he could respond, Ye Xinren continued, "I want to go there, so you have to take me."

The word "art" made Jiang Yanxu's stomach twist.

It was a word he could no longer bear.

His fingers curled against his palm as memories resurfaced—memories of Yan An.

When he was in prison, Yan An always talked about his favorite art gallery he had visited.

Jiang Yanxu could still hear his voice. See the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke about paintings.

Yan An had loved to paint. His art was breathtaking, vivid, alive.

Jiang Yanxu used to believe Yan An himself was a masterpiece.

A perfect art.

But he had destroyed the art.

Jiang Yanxu's heart clenched, fragile beneath the weight of regret.

He lowered his gaze, swallowed hard.

Ye Xinren's words still lingered in the air, but Jiang Yanxu had already drifted somewhere else—to a past that could never be undone.

And no matter how much time passed, the wound remained.