Chapter 380: Silence Speaks Louder Than Words

In the center of the spotlight, Jiang Ci stood, his neck wrapped in that pilling red scarf.

He buried himself deep into his collar.

The constant warm air in the studio hall suddenly cooled the moment he appeared.

He hunched his shoulders, his hands shoved into opposite sleeves, his whole body curling into a ball.

The invisible rubber shoes on his feet stomped rapidly twice on the spot.

Thump.

He pulled out his right hand, brought it to his mouth, and blew out a white puff of air, then vigorously rubbed his stiff cheeks.

That fair, clean face was rubbed into a purplish-red color, as if it had been long battered by cold winds.

In front of the television, Auntie Wang subconsciously hugged her arms tightly.

“Is the heater broken?” She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, muttering softly, “Why does it feel so chilly?”

Chu Hong did not make a sound.

She stared fixedly at the screen, the handkerchief in her hand clenched into a tight ball.

That stomping frequency, that angle of his hunched neck, that slight upward tilt of his chin when he blew on his hands.

It was too familiar.

Exactly like countless winter nights, when that man would finish his shift, standing in the hallway waiting for the chill on his body to dissipate.

On the stage, Jiang Ci moved.

He took half a step forward, a motion of stepping up onto a stair.

Then, he reached out into the empty air, his five fingers splayed, grasping an invisible doorknob.

His wrist pressed down, his shoulder leaned forward.

That non-existent door seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, its hinges rusted shut.

As his body’s center of gravity shifted forward and he exerted force, the people in front of the screen mentally supplied the dull, heavy “creak.”

The door opened.

Jiang Ci did not step in immediately.

He first turned sideways, squeezed through the narrow crack of the door, then swiftly reached back with his hand, closing the door with a “bang.”

The moment that door closed, his shoulders, which had been as tense as stone, finally slumped.

The sense of security from shutting the wind and snow outside the door was clearly conveyed to everyone through this tiny action.

But he still did not walk further in.

He stood in that non-existent entryway and began to do something no one expected.

He lowered his head, stretched out his palm, and began patting his shoulders forcefully.

Pat, pat.

That was the snow falling from his shoulders.

Then came his trouser legs, the hem of his coat, even the uppers of his shoes were not spared.

He patted meticulously, his movements gentle yet stubborn.

Only after confirming there was not a trace of chill or dust left on him did he stop, carefully rubbing his feet back and forth on the “doormat.”

In Star City, inside the old family dormitory building.

Chu Hong’s breath suddenly hitched.

Her vision blurred instantly. The young face on the screen and the smiling, stubbled face from her memory abruptly overlapped.

That was Jiang Yanjun’s habit.

That man who had been a narcotics officer his whole life, no matter what he encountered outside, no matter how much blood or chill he carried on his body,

as long as he reached the doorway of home, he would always clean himself up thoroughly.

“Don’t bring the dirty stuff into the house, it’ll scare the wife and kid.”

This was something he often said when he was alive.

Chu Hong turned her head, looking at the empty chair beside her.

“Old Jiang.”

Her voice was extremely soft, afraid of disturbing this encounter across time and space.

“Look, our son remembers everything.”

Auntie Wang watched the young man on TV who even cleaned the soles of his shoes, and for some reason, her nose tingled with emotion.

She thought of her own son working in Magic City,

every time he came home, that kid would also take off his smoke-scented jacket outside the door, change into clean slippers,

and only then would he call out with a smile, “Mom.”

At that moment, she suddenly understood something.

So the true act of coming home begins when you want to keep the wind, snow, and dust of the outside world outside that door.

On the stage, Jiang Ci finally completed that elaborate ritual.

He straightened his back and raised his head.

Those eyes, slightly narrowed from the cold, now completely lit up.

Transforming into a softness and dependence almost childlike in nature.

He looked around.

His gaze passed over the empty air, pierced through the camera lens, crossed thousands of miles of fiber optic cables.

He was looking for someone.

Finally, his gaze settled directly ahead.

He smiled towards that empty, directionless space.

It wasn’t the standard smile of Film Emperor Jiang Ci on the red carpet, nor was it the inscrutable cold smile from his movies.

It was a simple, honest, somewhat ingratiating, and somewhat apologetic, foolish grin.

His lips moved.

No sound.

CCTV’s top-tier sound equipment only captured his faint, rapid breathing.

But everyone who understood Chinese, in that moment, read the shape of those lips.

“Mom, I’m home.”

Jiang Ci walked towards the center of the stage.

There stood the only physical prop on the entire set.

An old wooden chair.

Most of the paint on the chair back had peeled off, revealing the mottled wood color underneath.

He walked to the side of the chair.

Reached out his hand, his fingertips gently touched the chair back.

The movement was so light, as if afraid of waking something, or afraid the person who should be in that seat would vanish into thin air.

He just stood there like that, head bowed, gazing at the empty chair.

The look in his eyes was no longer merely a child’s adoration, but a man’s tribute to another man, and a belated consolation.

That was Father’s place.

At this moment, this empty chair was no longer just a prop.

It became a symbol, a silent monument.

In front of the television, Auntie Wang felt a lump of cotton clogging her throat.

She wasn’t very educated, couldn’t understand art, but she could understand a look.

That look was too heavy.

Heavy enough to make her think of her father who had passed away many years ago, of all those nagging words she could no longer hear.

“This kid…”

Auntie Wang wiped the corner of her eye, her voice choked with tears.

“This kid’s acting… why does it make people’s hearts ache so much?”

Chu Hong still sat bolt upright.

She looked at her son on the screen, at that hand resting on the chair back.

That was her son telling the man who had been absent for over a decade: This family, I’ve held it up.

Have you… come home too?

Jiang Ci’s hand rested on the chair back for three seconds before withdrawing.

He began to untie the scarf around his neck.

That pilling red scarf was unwound loop by loop.

He folded the scarf in half, then in half again.

His movements were precise, every corner aligned perfectly.

That meticulousness and upbringing etched into his bones formed a stark contrast with the tattered padded jacket he wore.

He gently placed the scarf, now folded into a neat square, on that non-existent “five-drawer cabinet.”

After doing all this, he finally turned around.

He brought over a “stool.”

Placed it directly opposite the physical chair.

He sat down.

His back slightly arched, his hands placed properly on his knees.

The stage was clearly empty, and all he faced was an empty chair.

Yet the atmosphere of a family reunion was so thick it was almost suffocating.

He was waiting.

Waiting for that bowl of steaming hot dumplings, waiting for that familiar call of “Dinner is Ready.”

Even if all of this existed only in his imagination.

Even if this was destined to be a New Year’s Eve dinner for one alone.

At this moment, silence spoke louder than a thousand words.