Chapter 3: A Favor

He had cried himself to sleep the night before. When he woke the next morning, Wen Mo’s eyes were swollen, dry, and sore—and to make matters worse, his cold had gotten worse.
His throat burned sharper when he woke. His head felt heavy. He was coughing and runny-nosed… He pulled two tissues from the bedside table, sat up, and rubbed his nose.
Sigh.
Wen Mo felt a little down, but at least the worst of the mood hadn’t carried into the new day.
After crying yesterday, the loneliness and hurt that had piled up in his chest had eased. He felt better now—mostly just helpless.
His parents used to praise him for every little thing he managed on his own. He had always been confident, always thought of himself as capable and strong—that no difficulty could beat him.
In truth, living alone was really hard. Especially when he had been protected and cared for in every detail since childhood—and now he was not only alone but learning life skills all over again.
Everything was difficult… Still. Take it slow. It would get better.
Wen Mo steadied himself. After washing up, he opened the freezer, took out a few ice cubes, wrapped them in a dry towel, and pressed them to his eyes.
Swollen eyes needed cold compresses.
Wen Mo held the towel in place and leaned against the sofa, wrapped in a small blanket.
He had no appetite for breakfast. His head still felt foggy.
The cold granules he drank yesterday hadn’t helped. Today was worse—he needed proper cold medicine.
Wen Mo remembered. When the ten-minute timer for the eye compress went off, he set the towel aside and started searching for the tablets.
He kept plenty of common medicines at home. Early in the month he had caught a chill. A community worker had taken him to the clinic for medicine. He remembered those pills worked well—one sleep and he was fine—and he still had plenty left.
He felt through the medicine box but found several identical-looking capsules. He couldn’t tell them apart and frowned at the boxes.
Next time he needed a divided pill case—another lesson learned. But right now he couldn’t find the right cold medicine. His shoulders slumped. Several minutes passed before he thought to call He Yi. His spirits lifted; he dialed at once.
He called twice. No answer. Wen Mo tilted his head, puzzled, but he wasn’t anxious. He carried the capsules back to the sofa.
Still wrapped in the blanket, he settled into the corner.
Sister He Yi was probably busy and hadn’t seen the phone. When she did, she would call back.
Wen Mo waited. Half an hour passed without a sound from the phone. His posture went from straight to slumped sideways.
“Achoo!” He sneezed several times in a row, wiped with a tissue, and hugged a pillow, rubbing softly against the back of the sofa.
The pale, soft flesh of his cheek bunched up against the cushion. He pulled the blanket tighter.
All right—maybe something important had her tied up. She couldn’t check her phone. He would have to find another way.
Wen Mo had lived in the new place over two months and knew a few neighbors—the elderly lady downstairs, for example… though she seemed to be at the hospital lately, caring for her daughter-in-law’s second baby. The man upstairs was an office worker—probably not home at this hour on a weekday. The auntie above him was traveling… The unit next door was empty.
After counting, Wen Mo couldn’t find anyone nearby. Property management seemed to be the only option.
Rain still hadn’t stopped. He wouldn’t meet anyone on the road. The management office was about three buildings away.
A bit far—but if he didn’t want the cold to worsen, he had to go.
Wen Mo got up coughing. Illness made his steps unsteady; he looked wilted. He dragged the blanket to the bedroom and changed into a thick hoodie and jacket.
It was pouring outside. He really didn’t want to go out.
Going out was already risky for a blind person—worse in weather like this. But he had no choice. He would just have to walk carefully.
Wen Mo bundled up, put on his shoes, and took his white cane to the door. The moment he opened it, he heard two people talking in the hall.
“Not bad—two bedrooms, a living room. Make do for now. When your parents cool off, you can move back to your mansion, young master.”
“Wasn’t counting on that.”
“Got spine, rich boy.” Pei Zeyang’s friend gave him a thumbs-up.
Pei Zeyang couldn’t be bothered to banter.
“Want me to call a cleaner?” the friend asked.
“No.” Pei Zeyang was sick of the sight of the pile. He had lived in his mother’s place three years. More than a dozen boxes of all sizes had been thrown out and stacked in the living room. He had no plan to sort them.
“In a couple days—”
“Hello.” A weak but clean, gentle voice cut into their conversation.
Both men turned toward the sound. What met Pei Zeyang’s eyes was a thin, slight young man.
Pei Zeyang noticed the slender figure first—then the white cane in his hand.
…and the hand holding it.
…Such a small palm. Such a thin wrist.
Delicate bones extended from the cuff, stretching pale, thin skin. Nearly translucent, faint blue veins trembling under the surface.
Pei Zeyang wondered if his eyesight had become unreasonably sharp. He froze a beat, then looked up.
The boy who had greeted them turned and coughed lightly twice, clearly ill—pale in the face. After the cough his pale lips pressed together; the hair on his forehead shifted slightly.
Beneath those strands, his eyes were clear as a pool. Soft light from the motion-sensor lamp above pooled in his pupils.
The light rested there and stayed there—no focus in his gaze. He looked toward them vaguely, without seeing.
He was blind.
Pei Zeyang’s gaze paused, dropped away—and two seconds later lifted again.
Injured.
There was a cute bandage on his forehead.
A blind boy with a fragile, sickly air—helpless-looking, as if he needed help.
Something indescribable stirred in Pei Zeyang’s chest. He frowned. “What’s wrong.”
“I was hoping you could help me with something.” Wen Mo ventured. When neither refused, he walked toward them, cane tapping on the floor—tap, tap, tap. Pei Zeyang watched him approach, saw him reach into his pocket and pull out five or six medicine boxes.
“Sorry—I can’t see. Could you tell me which ones are cold medicine?”
When he finished, no one spoke.
Wen Mo tilted his head, confused.
What’s wrong…
“Sure, I’ll take a look.”
The moment the voice sounded, the boxes were snatched from his hands.
—the speaker was one person; the one who moved was another.
Pei Zeyang was faster than his friend.
“This one.” A blister pack was pressed into Wen Mo’s palm. “Twice a day, two tablets each time.”
“This is cold medicine too—twice a day, one capsule. Can you tell capsules from tablets?”
“I can, I can.” Wen Mo nodded quickly.
Pei Zeyang grunted. He put the rest of the boxes in Wen Mo’s other hand and sorted the two types apart.
Pei Zeyang: “These are for allergies, stomach pain, and diarrhea.”
“Oh, right, right.” Wen Mo nodded again at that. “The doctor gave them when I accidentally drank expired milk.”
“Whoa, you drank expired milk? Why?” Pei Zeyang’s friend butted in.
“…It was an accident.” Wen Mo looked down, embarrassed.
The man beside him immediately earned an elbow to the ribs.
Couldn’t he figure out that if you can’t read expiry dates you might drink bad milk? And he still asked.
Friend: “…”
Damn, that hurt.
Wen Mo couldn’t see what passed between them. He took fridge magnets from his pocket on his own.
Both hands were full. He struggled to feel for each box and stick a magnet on.
“What are you doing?” The friend forgot the pain, drawn by Wen Mo’s movements.
“Labels—so next time I won’t need to ask.” Wen Mo explained.
For now this would do. Once he bought a divided pill case, it would be better.
Pei Zeyang looked down at what he was doing.
Cold medicine got a little cat. Stomach medicine got a carrot. Allergy medicine got bread—clear, easy patterns.
The blind couldn’t see. Daily life held too many inconveniences.
“Oh—” Pei Zeyang’s friend dragged out the sound and kept talking. “There’s no one at home to help you?”
“…” Wen Mo’s fingers paused.
Fine, beautiful fingertips stopped, curled slightly, then slowly opened again.
A tiny motion.
“I live alone.” Wen Mo said softly.
“Thank you both.” When he finished labeling, he thanked them.
In this weather, not having to trudge through rain to the property office for help felt lucky. His gratitude ran deep and sincere: “You’re both so kind, especially—”
Wen Mo turned his head toward Pei Zeyang.
He couldn’t see, but he could place them by their voices.
“Especially you.” Wen Mo said. “Thank you. You’re so kind—a really good person.”
Pei Zeyang, receiving a “good person” card for the first time in his life: “.”
He had never heard himself described that way.
His friend was stunned for several seconds, then hammered the wall in silent laughter.
Hahahaha, dead.
Pei Zeyang—a good person.
This blond, tattooed guy who street-raced, fought, broke his leg in a crash half a month ago and got thrown out by his parents—he looked like a good person? Hahaha. Pei Zeyang’s face might as well have had words stamped on it:
I’m fierce, rebellious, don’t mess with me—
The laughter was so wild you could feel it without hearing a sound. Pei Zeyang frowned and slammed his friend into the wall—cold, ruthless, no mercy.
…Damn.
Nearly flattened his nose.
“Right. I’m a good person.” Pei Zeyang looked at Wen Mo. “If you need anything later, come find me. I live right here.”
“You can come anytime.”
“Hm? Really?” Wen Mo, about to say goodbye, lit up at that—his sightless eyes gaining a spark. “Actually there’s something I can’t find. I was hoping someone could help look…”
“Sure.” Pei Zeyang agreed without thinking—so fast Wen Mo blinked before speaking again a few seconds later.
“It might be somewhere high—like on top of the closet in the second bedroom.”
That was Wen Mo’s guess.
He couldn’t find the suitcase anywhere in the apartment, so he guessed it had been stacked on the wardrobe.
He would probably need someone to reach it.
Wen Mo felt awkward. He was already imposing too much—he had blurted it out in excitement. Now he was shy. Maybe the other had only been polite…
“Yeah. I’m tall.” Pei Zeyang spoke before he could back out, unconcerned. “One ninety.”
A pause.
“One ninety point six.”
So however high Wen Mo’s closet was, he could reach it.
…Huh?
Wen Mo blinked, gave a soft “ah,” lips slightly parted—as if he didn’t quite understand what those decimal places meant.
Pei Zeyang’s friend also didn’t really get it. He looked at Pei Zeyang like he was an idiot.
Bro.
You broke your leg and left the hospital yesterday, you know? What are you about to do now?!