Chapter 40: No One is Born Knowing

At midnight, Zi Yan’s room was silent, with only the desk lamp glowing.

“Ding ling ling.”

Suddenly, the alarm clock on the desk rang. At the sound, Zi Yan reached out and silenced it.

“Ah…”

The room was quiet again, and the soft scratch of pencil on paper sounded unusually clear.

Zi Yan’s cheeks tightened as he pressed down on the ruler with one hand and gripped the black pencil with the other, drawing lines perfectly along the edge.

Finally, after finishing the last line, Zi Yan put down the pencil and grabbed the pattern on the desk to examine it.

Lina’s voice seemed to echo in his ear: “The drawing is so-so. Redo it.”

Zi Yan remained silent.

If his mother saw this pattern, that would probably be her exact comment.

Zi Yan shook his head helplessly.

Not just his professional mother— even Zi Yan himself, as the creator, was far from satisfied with this pattern.

He gently set the pattern back on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and recalled the past.

In fact, even counting the works from two years ago, this was probably among the worst batches Zi Yan had ever drawn.

“…Sigh.”

Zi Yan pressed his lips together and let out a heavy sigh.

Whether it was drawing fashion design sketches or creating patterns, these tasks weren’t much different from the studies Zi Yan had been working on lately.

It was like rowing upstream; not advancing meant falling behind.

On the desk was a can of ice-cold cola Zi Yan had taken from the fridge four hours earlier. He picked it up; the aluminum surface was already slightly chilled.

“Glug glug.”

With a crisp pop, he opened the tab and closed his eyes, taking a large gulp.

The cola’s overwhelming sweetness spread through his mouth. It felt even cooler than the can’s surface.

Beneath the sweetness was a faint, tickling gritty sensation that brushed every corner inside his mouth— an odd, pleasant feeling that made Zi Yan squint his eyes shut, his long eyelashes trembling.

He had already noticed this when the alarm went off.

From the moment he started drawing the pattern at seven o’clock, four hours had passed.

His head felt dizzy, his shoulders ached from the long hours bent over the desk, and the discomfort across his body made him frown deeply.

If he were drawing fashion design sketches, he wouldn’t be this exhausted.

Because when drawing fashion design sketches, in a way, you could abandon all so-called “rationality.”

Who cares if it’s unreasonable? You don’t need to worry about the difficulty of making the clothes.

Just let your imagination run wild, boldly putting every beautiful idea that appears in your mind onto the design sketches.

So it could be unreasonable, wildly creative.

But patterns were a completely different matter.

It was like the difference between arts students and science students. Fashion design sketches could be artistic, but pattern-making demanded a fully rational mindset.

Patterns were the final guide for making the clothes. They required precise calculations and the use of rulers to draw exact lines without the slightest error.

If possible, you even had to sew a preliminary sample on a sewing machine to check if the pattern was correct.

But the fabric Zi Yan had bought— a white woolen material— was very expensive. He couldn’t bear to use it for experiments, so he had to be extra careful drawing the patterns.

So it was no wonder Zi Yan felt this tired.

“Hmm…” Zi Yan suddenly shivered.

It was October now. At night, the temperature in Haizhou would drop close to freezing. Earlier, fearing the room would feel stuffy without air circulation, Zi Yan had cracked open the window a little.

Now, cooled down from his focused enthusiasm for pattern-making, the room felt icy. Even the breath escaping his mouth faintly showed white, floating in the air.

He pulled on the coral fleece pajamas by his bedside and rubbed his hands to warm them.

Picking up the failed pattern, Zi Yan walked over to the window and sat quietly beside the bed.

Speaking of which, these coral fleece pajamas were bought for Zi Yan by Comrade Zheng Quan after work this afternoon at Wanda.

The cream-colored woolen coat and deep black stripes crossed over, making him look like a zebra.

What did Zi Yan do all day back in Antwerp?

Drawing design sketches, making patterns, and sewing clothes. If he could get a word of praise from his mother before bed, he was satisfied.

So now… it was understandable that he had been away from that environment for so long and felt rusty with his garment-making skills.

“Sigh…” Zi Yan sighed deeply again, his mood heavy.

A gentle evening breeze slipped through the window crack and softly brushed Zi Yan’s cheek.

Though gentle, the air was too cold, and Zi Yan couldn’t bear it. He leaned forward and pushed the window shut in one swift motion.

Resting one hand on the windowsill, he looked outside.

The window was triple-glazed, carefully cleaned inside and out by Zheng Quan during the National Day holiday.

If it weren’t for the faint reflection of his own white hair and red eyes in the glass, Zi Yan might have thought nothing was blocking his view.

Outside, the night was pitch-black, with twinkling stars shining quietly and clearly.

“Forget it, forget it,” Zi Yan muttered to himself.

He’d just have to keep trying. He wondered when the woolen fabric he bought yesterday would finally be made into a garment…

“Tap, tap.”

Light footsteps sounded behind Zi Yan. He turned to see his father, still wearing dress pants and a wool sweater.

Zheng Quan came in holding a steaming cup of water and set it down on the nightstand next to Zi Yan. Sitting down beside him, he patted Zi Yan’s head and asked, “Still not asleep?”

“Mm.” Zi Yan put down the pattern and replied, “Dad, you’re not asleep yet either?”

Zi Yan looked toward the door of his room. No light came from elsewhere in the house; it was quiet and dark. He had thought his father was already asleep.

“It’s common for me to be busy this late,” Zheng Quan said, handing the warm cup to Zi Yan. “Have some hot water to warm yourself up first.”

Zi Yan accepted the cup but hadn’t yet taken a sip. Just holding it made his hands warm.

His heart felt warm too.

Zheng Quan said, “Hang in there a little longer. Central heating starts in November.”

Implementing central heating for Haizhou City was the first thing Zheng Quan had done since taking office here.

Zi Yan lowered his brows. “That means we still have to endure more than half a month…”

He was physically weak. At this temperature, even with thermal socks on, his feet still felt cold.

Zheng Quan smiled, “Having it at all is what counts.”

He casually picked up the pattern Zi Yan had drawn.

Zi Yan panicked, quickly stopping him: “It’s not well drawn. Dad, don’t look—”

But Zheng Quan’s hands moved too fast. Zi Yan couldn’t stop him.

Though Zi Yan knew his father was a complete novice when it came to fashion design, unable to judge quality, he still felt embarrassed to have his father see such a poor drawing.

Zheng Quan carefully examined the pattern and praised, “Isn’t this drawn very well?”

“It’s not good at all…” Zi Yan tried to snatch the pattern back. Zheng Quan’s large palm held it firmly, and Zi Yan couldn’t wrestle it away, so he sulked in defeat.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Zheng Quan said.

“Everything takes a process of trial and error. When your mother was young, she often struggled all night over imperfect patterns too.”

“Huh? Mom?” Zi Yan was surprised.

Even a professional, confident fashion designer like his mother could be like that?

“Of course,” Zheng Quan leaned back, resting against the neatly folded quilt. “No one is born knowing how to do anything.”

His expression grew nostalgic.

He remembered studying in Germany and falling in love with Zi Yan’s mother, Katharina Zweigert.

Whenever Katharina was unsatisfied with her design sketches or patterns, Zheng Quan would gently comfort her for a long time at night until she finally fell asleep, no matter how upset she was.

Though Zheng Quan knew nothing about making clothes, he could distinguish between design sketches and patterns.

Strictly speaking, patterns were a type of fashion design sketch…

Well, that detail didn’t matter.

Seeing his son like this, Zheng Quan felt like he had been transported back more than a decade.

Fashion design…

If it weren’t for him, if Zi Yan or Katharina didn’t have to be in Sunflower Country…

What path would Zi Yan, whose lifelong career was fashion design, have taken?

Would he be living as happily as Katharina did in university?

Thinking this made Zheng Quan’s guilt over bringing Zi Yan back to Sunflower Country weigh even heavier on his heart.

He stared at Zi Yan’s cheek, lost in thought. Then suddenly, he noticed a faint red mark on the left side of Zi Yan’s face.

That mark… looked like a scratch.

Had someone bullied his child at school?!

Zheng Quan snapped back to reality and asked, “Son, what’s that wound on your face?”

“Huh? Wound?” Zi Yan blinked and touched his face, then suddenly remembered. “Oh, that. When I went to buy fabric yesterday, a classmate scratched me at the First Department Store.”

The First Department Store? In Haizhou City? Got scratched by a classmate inside the store?

That was a lot to take in. Zheng Quan’s mind raced as he connected the dots and felt a chill.

If it weren’t so late— past midnight— he’d want to call Teacher He Yanli immediately to get to the bottom of this.

Who on earth bullied his precious boy?!

Zheng Quan’s smile disappeared, his face darkened. Zi Yan didn’t notice.

Zi Yan stood and went to his desk. The beige canvas schoolbag on the chair beside the desk was flattened by him after four hours of pattern drawing.

He rummaged through a compartment and pulled out a small, thin tube of ointment, holding it up for Zheng Quan to see.

“Here, this is the medicine ointment that classmate gave me this morning.”