Chapter 9 Every Blade of Grass

Chapter 9: Every Blade of Grass, Every Tree

The car drove along the familiar tree-lined avenue and turned through the black gate.

Shen Qingci watched the scenery flashing past the window, his fingers tightening their grip on the cane, inch by inch.

The same.

Exactly the same as ten years ago.

The ginkgo tree in the garden was still there, its golden leaves covering the ground like a thick carpet.

The stone bench beneath the tree was where he used to read.

The flowerbed on the right was planted with irises he liked. Though it was autumn now, only withered stems remained.

Even the copper streetlamp at the entrance remained exactly as it was.

Ten years.

Every flower, every tree, every brick, every tile—not a single thing had changed.

The car stopped in front of the main building.

Lu Lin got out first, the hem of his trench coat fluttering in the autumn wind.

He stood on the steps, looking back at Shen Qingci, who was still sitting in the car. His gaze was so complex it seemed as if he wanted to see right through this person.

Shen Qingci pushed the car door open and stepped out, leaning on his cane.

His suitcase was taken out by the bodyguard, but he paid no attention. Instead, he stood in the courtyard, looking up at the familiar villa.

The morning light slanted across the beige exterior tiles. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the second floor were wide open, the white gauze curtains fluttering gently in the breeze.

Everything overlapped with the images in his memory.

He had lived here for nine years.

Now, he was back.

But ten years had already passed.

For a fleeting moment, Shen Qingci had an illusion.

As if time had never passed, as if he had never been in a car accident, never died, never experienced this ten-year gap.

As if he had just returned from a business trip and was now coming home.

But the man walking ahead of him—Lu Lin, twenty-six years old, with broad shoulders and a resolute back—constantly reminded him: this was not ten years ago.

Shen Qingci stopped in the courtyard and did not move forward.

He spoke softly, "I am not Shen Qingci. Please let me leave."

His voice was light, but in the quiet morning, it was startlingly clear.

Lu Lin, who had just stepped onto the first stair, froze abruptly.

He turned around, looking down at Shen Qingci in the courtyard.

The morning light shone from behind him, casting his face in shadow, making his expression unclear.

But Shen Qingci could sense the fury surging in those eyes.

Shen Qingci looked up at him.

From this angle, it reminded him of the past—when Lu Lin first arrived, he was only eight years old, thin and small, barely reaching his chest.

Every time he scolded him, the child had to look up, his eyes red, like a wronged little animal.

But now...

Shen Qingci sighed softly in his heart.

Time flies.

The child he once had to look down at now required him to look up.

"I know you're not Shen Qingci," Lu Lin spoke, his voice hoarse as if talking to himself. "He's dead. I know."

Shen Qingci looked at him.

For some reason, he felt that this twenty-six-year-old Lu Lin seemed somewhat sad.

Lu Lin spoke again, his words filled with suspicion: "Who sent you? Daring to impersonate him—do you not know how to write the word 'death'?"

The hostility in his voice was so heavy that everyone in the courtyard held their breath.

Shen Qingci raised his eyes to meet Lu Lin's bloodshot gaze.

Now he felt that the twenty-six-year-old Lu Lin seemed less obedient than the sixteen-year-old version.

Although the sixteen-year-old Lu Lin was also stubborn, he always restrained himself in front of him.

When angry, he would press his lips together and remain silent; when wronged, his eyes would turn red. But he never acted like this.

Even though his current identity was Shen Qing, he showed no basic courtesy toward others.

How had the Lu family raised him these past ten years?

Shen Qingci's fingers unconsciously tapped lightly on the cane, making faint "tap-tap" sounds.

"Mr. Lu," he spoke, deciding not to concern himself with Lu Lin any longer, "there are many people in the world who look alike."

He paused, then added two words: "My condolences."

These two words were like a rusty knife, plunging deep into Lu Lin's heart.

His pupils contracted sharply.

He stared fixedly at Shen Qingci's face—identical to the one in his memory, the face he had longed for and dreamed of for ten years.

But now, the owner of this face spoke to him in an almost indifferent tone, offering condolences.

As if mourning himself.

"You..." Lu Lin's voice trembled violently.

He suddenly raised his right hand and slammed his fist hard against the wall beside him.

"Thud—!"

The dull impact was especially piercing in the quiet courtyard.

Shen Qingci's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Lu Lin wrenched his hand back, his knuckles instantly red and swollen, the skin scraped raw by the rough wall, beading with blood.

But he seemed to feel no pain, just gritted his teeth, his eyes red as if about to bleed.

Then he turned and stormed into the villa without looking back.

The door slammed shut with a deafening crash.

Shen Qingci stood where he was, his gaze fixed on the glaring smear of blood on the wall.

His frown deepened.

He had always known Lu Lin had a bad temper.

As a child, that boy was like a little wolf—wary, irritable, fighting back desperately when bullied.

But he would never hurt himself, because he had been taught to value himself.

And now?

Punching a wall.

Who taught him that?

Or... was this what Lin Wei meant by self-destructive tendencies?

Shen Qingci's lips pressed into a cold, thin line.

Idiot.

He cursed inwardly, then using his cane for support, he walked step by step up the stairs and into the villa.

The entryway, the living room, the dining room.

Everything was unchanged.

Even the painting he liked still hung in its original place.

The sofa was the same set from ten years ago, the floor so clean it reflected like a mirror, the air carrying the familiar, faint scent of wood.

Familiar, clean, tidy, meticulous.

Shen Qingci's tense body unconsciously relaxed at this moment.

He walked to the single armchair and habitually sat down.

He leaned his cane against the armrest, then reached for the stack of financial newspapers on the coffee table.

The movements were as natural as breathing.

As if the past ten years had just been a long nap, and upon waking, everything was as usual.

Lu Lin sat on the sofa, watching him.

Shen Qingci lowered his head to read the newspaper, his profile appearing exceptionally clear in the morning light.

The butler, Uncle Fu, emerged from the kitchen carrying a tea tray. When he saw the person in the living room, he nearly dropped the tray in his hands.

The old man's eyes widened, fixed intently on Shen Qingci on the sofa, his lips trembling. It took him a long moment to find his voice:

"M-Mr. Shen?"

The voice was soft, carrying a tone of tentative disbelief.

Shen Qingci looked up from the newspaper.

Seeing the old man standing not far away, his usually cool expression faltered with rare surprise.

Uncle Fu.

The butler who had been by his side since birth, taking care of his daily life.

"Uncle Fu?" Shen Qingci called out instinctively.

That single utterance seemed to ignite the anger Lu Lin had long suppressed; a vein at his temple throbbed violently.

"Enough!"

This time, Lu Lin bellowed.

With his injured hand, he smashed his fist down onto the coffee table.

The table shook, water sloshed from the cups.

Blood spread across the clear glass, a glaring red.

"He's not Shen Qingci!" Lu Lin, eyes bloodshot, glared fiercely at Uncle Fu. "Shen Qingci is dead! Dead for ten years! Look clearly! This is an imposter!"

Shen Qingci's brow furrowed.

He watched as Lu Lin struck the coffee table with his injured hand, watched the blood spread across the glass, watched Lu Lin's face contorted with rage and pain.

"Lu Lin."