Deadlock

“Uncle Chen, I want to see my daughter! Is that okay?” Standing outside the tall black iron gate of the Bi Mansion, Tan Yang pleaded with Uncle Chen.

Uncle Chen shook his head helplessly. “Uncle Chen, could you bring the child out? Just let me see her for a moment, please, Uncle Chen!” Tan Yang gripped the iron gate, crying as she spoke. Uncle Chen, stooped and resigned, replied, “Young Madam, it’s not for me to decide. It’s Young Master’s orders.”

Tan Yang was stunned for a moment, then clutched her chest and wept even harder. Uncle Chen, moved by pity, spoke earnestly, “Young Madam, why put yourself through this? You are a family—come back. If you return, we can pretend nothing ever happened. Everything will be as it was before!” Hearing this, Tan Yang stopped crying, her voice dry and bitter. “Pretend nothing ever happened? How is that possible? He may be able to pretend, but I can’t.” She glanced once at the Bi Mansion behind Uncle Chen, determined to commit the lush, beautiful garden and grand house to memory. She resolved silently: Daughter, I’ll come back for you soon—wait for me. With that, Tan Yang turned and walked away resolutely.

Step by step, she left the Bi Mansion behind, murmuring about her daughter, yet her mind was filled with images of him, not the child. Twelve years of acquaintance; even the most mundane moments had etched themselves as deep marks in her heart, like water wearing away stone. Their happiness as a couple only deepened those impressions. No matter what happened later, those twelve years could never be erased. That was sorrow. But what was more sorrowful was Tan Yang’s awareness of it all—her understanding of the sadness, and her own place within it.

The next morning dawned with heavy rain. Tan Yang, carrying her luggage, arrived at the docks to board a ship. The rain was so fierce that the world was shrouded in mist. She held an umbrella in one hand and clutched her ticket in the other. Passengers queued up, inching forward. When Tan Yang’s turn arrived, the ticket inspectors whispered to each other, then one led her away.

In a nearby two-story building, several men who looked like police officers were busy at their desks. An older officer politely invited Tan Yang to sit, pouring her a cup of hot water. He spoke kindly, “Miss Tan, you cannot board the ship. You must remain in Shanghai.” “Why?” she asked. “You have connections with members of the underground party. We suspect you know certain things, so you must cooperate and stay in Shanghai.” Tan Yang was furious, indignant. “Who told you that? You can’t just make up stories and prevent me from leaving. Show me your evidence!” The officer bowed his head, troubled. “Miss Tan, these are orders from above. We’re just following instructions.”

Tan Yang laughed bitterly, sighing. She instinctively looked up at the window behind the officer. The blue-painted wooden frame gleamed brightly under the rain. The downpour plastered the glass in sheets. Outside, she could see only the vague outline of a black car.

Suddenly, Tan Yang stood up, pushed open the door, and ran around the building toward the car. She glanced at the license plate and began pounding desperately on the car door. The sound of rain hitting the car drowned out her pounding, highlighting her helplessness.

Bi Qingtang rolled down the window, staring directly at Tan Yang. The rain had soaked her until she was drenched, almost unrecognizable. He gripped his knees tightly, suppressing the urge to get out and shield her from the rain. His knees ached, and in his ears was her angry voice, “Bi Qingtang, how dare you! Why are you forcing me like this? What good does it do you to drive me into a corner?” Bi Qingtang glared at her, full of righteous indignation. “You promised me! Before our daughter was born, you promised me you’d never leave Shanghai, no matter what happened!”

Even now, he clung to her old promise. He was a clever man, but trapped in the mire of emotion, living by the breath of that promise, he became confused. A promise is not a perpetual check, always ready to be cashed—it’s merely a beautiful wish with an expiration date. Yet how could wishes made in the depths of affection ever truly be binding?

Tan Yang dragged her heavy luggage through the torrential rain, step by step toward home. By the time she returned to the old house, she was utterly exhausted. There was neither food nor drink, no light—only bleakness and desolation. She quickly dried her hair and clothes and collapsed onto the bed, her body and spirit sinking into a deep sleep.

In the middle of the night, she awoke to find the bed soaked; the house was leaking. She scrambled to find containers for the rain, then moved to her uncle’s room to sleep. But there was no peace that night. Her uncle’s contorted face at the time of his death loomed large in her dreams, again and again. She woke frightened, clutching the blanket at the edge of the bed, crying in sorrow. She sobbed intermittently until dawn, only then drifting back to sleep.

When she awoke again, she was burning with fever. With no money, she could neither buy medicine nor repair the house. Discouraged, she lay in bed most of the day, her fever worsening, chills wracking her body, her mouth dry and cracked. There wasn’t even a sip of hot water nearby. She forced herself to stand, clinging to the bedpost, but after a few steps, darkness overcame her and she collapsed.

Time lost meaning—was it a day, or two? Was she dreaming, or delirious from the fever? Tan Yang imagined herself lying on her mother’s lap beneath the osmanthus tree in the courtyard of their old home in Tongli. The fragrance of the flowers filled the August sunset. Her mother combed the ends of her long braid, her father lounged in a wicker chair humming the opera 'Dingjun Mountain,' and her uncle’s impatient voice drifted from inside, asking about dinner and whether there was Scholar’s Pork from the town gate.

She wondered whether she would die like this—die in the warmth of sunset and the sweetness of osmanthus, die in peaceful Tongli, die in the arms of her loved ones, die in the carefree days of youth. Twelve years had passed like a dream; upon waking, she’d already be gone from this world. All the hardships of the mortal realm—living is the greatest suffering.

In rare moments of clarity, Tan Yang thought, full of despair: If this is how it ends, let it end.

After some time, she vaguely saw her daughter hugging her leg. She tenderly stroked Yan Qin’s soft hair, suddenly remembering her promise to let the child grow out her hair so she could braid it every morning. Holding onto this last shred of willpower, Tan Yang forced her eyes open.

People do not fear death, only that life still holds things worth loving, and most are unwilling to let go.

Weak and depleted, Tan Yang crawled and dragged herself back to her room. Every bit of distance took all her strength and needed a pause, but she dared not close her eyes, fearing that if she slept, she would never wake again. When she finally reached her room, she picked up the phone and dialed Zhao Ling’s number, uttering only a few words before fainting, unconscious.

In her haze, she felt someone stroking her forehead. She even heard her daughter calling, “Mama,” and his voice, softly addressing her as “Little Sister.” Gradually her consciousness cleared. She felt warmth and comfort; her whole body was at ease. She hadn’t slept so soundly in days. When she opened her eyes, she saw the wide bed, silk quilt, and crystal chandelier overhead—all familiar, the only home she had.

She realized she wasn’t lying on a pillow, but in someone’s arms. Turning her head, she saw Bi Qingtang holding her tightly, asleep against the headboard. He was noticeably thinner, his beard fully grown, his face haggard. He slept restlessly, eyebrows tightly knit, troubled by dreams she could only imagine. Realizing she was thinking about his dreams, Tan Yang felt a surge of annoyance. She summoned all her strength and pushed his hand away forcefully.

Bi Qingtang snapped awake and, seeing her, immediately broke into a smile, kissing her forehead. “You’re finally awake. You slept for two days—almost came down with pneumonia. You scared me.” But seeing Tan Yang’s cold gaze, his smile faltered and became awkward; he quickly sobered. “Little Sister, don’t be stubborn. You’ve suffered so much. Why put yourself through this? You’re so sick, and it pains me terribly. Don’t keep tormenting yourself—and me—any longer, okay?” Tan Yang’s face was bleak. “All you ever talk about is yourself and me. Don’t you know there’s more to this world than just us?” “I know! And what of it? Should we give up living for a bunch of dead souls?” Bi Qingtang retorted.

His words infuriated Tan Yang. She straightened her weak body and left his embrace, only then realizing both were naked. She glanced with disgust at Bi Qingtang’s bare torso and spat out, “Scoundrel!” Bi Qingtang, seeing her look of contempt, flared with anger, jumped from the bed, and as he dressed, snapped, “Scoundrel? I haven’t sunk so low as to touch an unconscious woman! I was dressed, holding you. How could I know you’d develop a fever in the middle of the night?”

Hearing this, Tan Yang felt even worse. She also got up and reached for her clothes. Bi Qingtang, now dressed, looked at her and asked, “What are you doing, getting up in the middle of the night?” Tan Yang ignored him, busy dressing. Bi Qingtang sneered, “Trying to leave again? Where can you possibly go? Little Sister, when did you become so foolish? Don’t you see? This is my world—here, you have everything. Without me, it’s a dead end.”

With that, Bi Qingtang left the room and locked the door from outside. As he turned the key, he heard Tan Yang inside, screaming hoarsely, “Bi Qingtang, I’m not afraid of death, but I am afraid to live against my conscience!” His hand shook as he pulled out the key. In that moment, he wished he had fallen in love with a timid, mediocre, indecisive woman—he truly felt he could not control her.

The next afternoon, Bi Qingtang had servants bring food into the bedroom. Once the servants left, Tan Yang sat at the bedside, refusing to look at him. He sat beside her, wanting to embrace her, but hesitated. After a long silence, Bi Qingtang finally spoke softly, “Little Sister, why aren’t you eating?” Tan Yang said nothing for a while. Then Bi Qingtang coaxed, lowering his voice, “You’re still unwell. You need to eat. I just brought you your favorite dishes from the Shandong restaurant outside—try them.” Tan Yang glanced at the food and replied coldly, “If you won’t let me leave, then let me starve. Who says that here I have everything? If I refuse, even surrounded by your mountains of gold, I’ll still starve.”

Bi Qingtang closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He knew better than anyone: if a person no longer fears death, it’s terrifying. No matter how much money, power, or ruthlessness he had, he could not keep her if she was unwilling. She was not afraid of death—but he was afraid she would die. He forced a smile. “You can leave, but only after you recover. The day Zhao Ling and I arrived, you were lying on the wet floor. You don’t know how painful it was for me. I called you, and you didn’t respond. I was truly scared. On the way to the hospital, I wondered what I should do if you never woke up. Little Sister, I’d rather endure suffering myself than see you in any distress.”

Tan Yang turned her face away. Bi Qingtang slowly stood, moved the bedside table in front of her, and brought over the food. “Stay here, take your medicine, rest, and eat well. Five days—once you’ve fully recovered, you can leave.” He handed her the chopsticks. “Eat. Once you've finished, I’ll bring your daughter to you.”

Tan Yang took the chopsticks and bowl, eating mechanically. Her crystalline tears fell onto the white rice, vanishing instantly. Bi Qingtang, watching, recalled the recent scene of Yan Qin crying for her mother while he tried to feed her. His heart tightened, his nose stinging with sadness. After so many years of storms and bloodshed, his once iron heart had never felt so vulnerable.

He turned and left the room, thinking: no matter what, this family would never be separated. But how could he keep her?

Author’s note: I went to Qingdao on a business trip recently, and spent half a month as the chief resident, so updates have been slow. My apologies to everyone—I’m too easily enamored of new cities… Just finished a night shift, caught up on sleep, and fixed typos. Once again, fixing typos is not a fake update. “Bitan Chronicle 5452_Bitan Chronicle Full Free Reading_54 (52) Deadlock update complete!”