Mr. Lizard Outside the Window - Chapter 7
Chapter 7: Lies
In the upscale residential area not far from Rongyin, Qiao Xin's mother was instructing their housekeeper to pack a delicate snack for her daughter.
From the kitchen, the housekeeper replied cheerfully, "Yes, ma'am! I'll make sure it's nice and warm when Qiao Qiao gets it."
Even a passerby could tell this was a warm and loving home.
In contrast to this lively household, another villa in the same complex was as still and silent as if frozen by winter rain.
The garden was overgrown with weeds and vines. The French windows were tightly shut, covered by thick curtains that blocked out even the bright winter sun.
Inside the dim house, a thick layer of dust covered the furniture. Clothes lay scattered across the floor. A broken porcelain bowl lay overturned near the doorway, spilled rice grains scattered around it. Left untouched for days, the rice had grown moldy and black, emitting a foul odor.
Even the expensive Steinway grand piano in the corner of the room wasn't spared from the dust. A trail of tiny paw prints marked the dusty surface of the lid, as if something had recently crawled across it.
At the end of the trail, a black gecko perched on the edge of the piano lid, like a creature lurking in the shadows.
It shifted its eyes in the darkness.
Clearly, no one had entered the house since it had left.
It had left this place on that stormy night. If it hadn't been drawn by the sound of the violin and managed to crawl into that lit window, it would have silently perished in the cold mud.
Even now, no one would have noticed its absence, its death.
Unloved in life, unnoticed in death.
Through the crack in the door, it heard faint footsteps outside. Then came hushed curses, escalating into an argument, growing sharper, and finally subsiding into a woman's soft sobs.
The black gecko on the piano lid listened quietly, like a stone frozen in the dim chaos, remaining silent in the darkness.
The sun slowly dipped below the horizon, and night fell.
Darkness enveloped the house.
In the dark, the little lizard on the piano began to transform. Its bones grew, its tiny limbs extended and changed, its inky black skin gradually turning pale.
In the dim, shadowy space, a pale, adult male arm emerged from beneath the piano. The long, white fingers gripped the edge of the instrument. The man slowly pulled himself up, supporting his forehead against the black piano as he gasped for breath. Finally, he bent down and picked up a shirt from the floor, covering his naked body.
The man slowly stood up, his pale fingers moving, brushing against the white piano keys, collecting dust on his fingertips.
His fingers were long and pale, but their shape wasn't particularly beautiful. Years of piano practice had left their mark on his fingertips and joints.
And it was precisely this relentless, self-disciplined practice, day after day, that had earned him the labels of "genius" and "prodigy" from a young age.
His so-called genius was nothing more than the result of painstaking, almost masochistic effort, a level of diligence that bordered on obsession. In the eyes of the world, such a dedicated child must surely love the piano deeply, willingly devoting his life to music.
The man looked down, rubbing the dust between his fingers.
Did he really love music? Perhaps it was all a facade. His so-called love was just a desperate lie he had told himself as a child to survive.
The bright halo, the affection of his adoptive parents, the admiration of others – none of it rightfully belonged to him.
The arguing and crying outside reminded him of his childhood, the darkest period of his life.
He had been so young then, his small world collapsing in an instant. He hadn't even had time to process the tidal wave of information that overwhelmed him.
He couldn't understand why his loving parents had suddenly abandoned him, becoming nothing more than pale photographs on the wall. He couldn't understand why his warm, bright home had suddenly lost its color, draped in black and white, filled with wails and arguments.
The legs of adults loomed around him, their eyes looking down at him – pity, grief, impatience, disgust, indifference – like demons from a horror story.
Their dark, hulking figures twisted and distorted like monsters, their sharp, piercing arguments echoing mercilessly in his trembling ears.
"He's a Ling after all. We can't send him to an orphanage. That would be too shameful."
"But what else can we do? He's such a big boy. Is your family going to take responsibility for raising him?"
"What about the child's grandfather? Doesn't he have a grandfather? I heard he lives in the countryside. Wouldn't it be perfect to send him there?"
"Don't mention it. The old man lost his daughter and son-in-law in one night. He's been hospitalized from the shock. Who knows if he'll even pull through."
"Poor child. But he's seven years old, old enough to remember everything. And he's a boy. It's going to be difficult."
"I already have two children. I can't possibly… Perhaps your family would be more suitable."
"No, we can't either. Third Uncle would be the best option."
For the boy, whose life had been carefree and happy until the age of seven, a blizzard had descended upon his sunny world overnight, without giving him a moment to breathe, to adapt.
Grief, helplessness, and fear tore at his young body. He stood on the edge of a precipice, a storm raging behind him. His home was gone, his future uncertain. He had grown up, painfully, in an instant.
After countless arguments and shirking responsibility, an uncle and aunt, their faces etched with reluctance, approached him.
The uncle, dressed in a well-tailored suit, his lips pursed, a crease between his brows, looked stern and imposing. The aunt forced a smile and patted his head.
"I hear you play the piano very well. Do you love playing the piano?"
As if afraid they might change their minds, the people around him chimed in, "Yes, yes! He's very musically gifted. Even Maestro William praised him personally."
"He's a promising talent, winning awards in national competitions at such a young age. And Third Uncle's business is piano sales, isn't it? Taking him in would be perfect."
The sensitive boy quickly realized that this might be his only lifeline. Fighting back tears, he lifted his pale face. "Yes, I love playing the piano. I practice very hard every day."
His parents' death, like a winter blizzard, had taken everything from him, extinguishing the pure, passionate flame in his heart.
He no longer wanted to play the piano, no longer loved the music he had once cherished, no longer possessed the sincerity his grandfather had praised.
But he lied, perpetuating this monumental lie with relentless practice, day after day, year after year.
The man's pale fingers pressed a key on the piano.
The single, lonely note echoed in the dark room, stirring up dust motes in the air.
Perhaps everything now was the price of his lie.
"Is there something going on downstairs?"
"I don't know. Should we…go check?"
Faint voices drifted from outside the door, but they quickly hushed, as if afraid of being overheard.
The silence was heavy, deliberate.
The man by the piano waited for a long time. No further sounds came from outside.
Finally, he lifted his fingers from the keys, grabbed a backpack, and calmly packed his ID card and a few clothes.
He slung the backpack over his shoulder and walked out of the room into the living room.
The living room was silent and empty. A few dim nightlights cast an eerie, unfamiliar glow on the familiar surroundings. Looking up the dimly lit staircase, the doors to the rooms on the second floor were all tightly closed, faint light seeping from beneath them. Everything was still.
He took one last look at the house, tightened his collar, and stepped out into the night without a word.
In Ying Jie's rented house, one of the mahjong players nudged her.
"Hey, you've got a customer," the players, who had been lounging in their pajamas, cracking sunflower seeds, suddenly straightened up, their eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Ying Jie turned around, puzzled, and saw a young man standing under the streetlight, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
Having rented out rooms for so many years, she had seen all sorts of people. She had a keen sense of who would rent her cheap rooms in this mixed-use building.
"You… want to rent a room?" Ying Jie asked hesitantly.
The young man stood against the backdrop of the dark night. He was tall and slender, his handsome features tinged with the chill of the night, his presence exuding an otherworldly air.
Despite the cold weather, he wore only a soft white shirt under a fine cashmere coat, his face pale from the wind. His long, straight legs were encased in well-tailored trousers. Standing quietly on the stone doorstep, he looked like a prince in exile.
Even the cluttered doorway, piled with cardboard boxes, seemed to acquire a touch of elegance with him standing there.
He didn't look like someone who would rent a room in such a humble place.
Not only were his clothes of high quality, and his casually slung backpack a designer brand, but his refined demeanor and pale, unblemished skin suggested a privileged upbringing.
Young men like him didn't belong in her world. If they were renting, they would choose a convenient, luxuriously furnished apartment in the city center or a villa with a housekeeper and chauffeur. They wouldn't come to a run-down urban village like this and rent a room for less than a thousand yuan a month.
Ying Jie led the unusual guest upstairs to see the available rooms. The man stopped on the third floor.
"You want this one? There are bigger rooms with better views upstairs."
"Yes, this one," the man's voice, unlike his polished appearance, was low and tired, like a weary traveler.
"Alright. This is the biggest and best room on the third floor. Are you moving in tonight?" Ying Jie selected a key from her ring and pointed to the door next door. "The girl next door is also a Rongyin student, about your age. She plays the violin."
The man's dark eyes lingered on the neighboring door for a moment.
After they went back downstairs, the mahjong players in their pajamas immediately bombarded Ying Jie with questions.
"Where did that boy come from? He's so handsome! Makes my son look like a monkey in comparison."
"He's from Rongyin," Ying Jie said, glancing at the staircase. "It's a bit strange that he's renting a room so late at night. But I checked his ID and student card. He seems legitimate."
"Music students have such a different aura. Maybe I should have my grandson learn an instrument."
"Strange, don't you think he looks familiar? I feel like I've seen him on TV, but I can't remember where. Could he be a celebrity?"
"Nonsense! Why would a celebrity live in a place like this?"
The players' chatter gradually faded as the clatter of mahjong tiles filled the air.
Ying Jie looked down at the photo of the ID card she had taken with her phone. Next to the handsome, refined face was the name Ling Dong.
Ling Dong? Why would anyone name their child that? Sounds so cold. Like my little girl, Lele. Such a good name, happy and cheerful.
But that name does sound familiar. I wonder where I've heard it before, she mused.
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