Truth Whispers
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. It explores deep emotional connections between the characters with intense moments. Reader discretion is advised.]
Yibo drove in silence.
Knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Every bump in the road felt like a reminder.
Every flash of light on the windshield like a jolt to his conscience.
Zhan’s face wouldn’t leave his mind—bloodied, broken… betrayed.
And he had handed him over.
Trusted the wrong man.
Again.
Beside him, Mr. Qiao was typing rapidly on his phone.
His expression unreadable.
“Uncle, tell me. Where are we going?”
Yibo finally asked, voice rough.
Mr. Qiao didn’t respond at first.
Yibo’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
His jaw clenched.
Foot pressed harder on the accelerator.
He glanced at Qiao again.
Frustration and fear coiling in his chest.
The silence was unbearable.
“Uncle… please.”
Yibo’s voice low and strained.
“I need to know.”
Mr. Qiao remained still for a moment longer.
Then finally spoke—
“To the truth.”
His voice was quiet.
Steady.
Heavy.
The city blurred behind them, swallowed by winding roads and open fields.
They passed sleepy villages, roadside fruit stands, cattle grazing freely, and the earthy scent of soil after a recent rain.
They drove for nearly five hours.
Watching skyscrapers dissolve into silos, concrete into cornfields, until all that remained was sky, soil, and the slow rhythm of the countryside.
Life felt slower here.
Older.
More honest.
Mr. Qiao gave him directions.
Eventually, the car slowed in front of a modest but spacious house nestled in the middle of a wide-open land.
Wooden fencing ran along the yard.
Chickens darted between the patches of grass.
A tired windmill turned lazily behind the house.
The front of the house was surrounded by vibrant clusters of wildflowers in full bloom.
Their colors adding a soft contrast to the rustic charm of the scene.
It didn’t feel like a mansion.
It felt like home.
They stepped out.
Yibo’s boots crunched against the gravel.
His heart… thundered for reasons he couldn’t name.
Mr. Qiao exchanged a brief look with Yibo.
Something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
Then he walked up to the front door of the house and rang the bell.
A few seconds passed.
Then the door creaked open.
A woman stood there.
Graceful. Worn.
Somewhere in her fifties.
Her eyes, swollen from sleepless night, immediately locked on Qiao.
“Where is he?”
She asked, voice cracking.
“Qiao-ge, you said Xian is in trouble—how bad is it?”
Yibo’s breath caught.
Xian?!
Her voice trembled with the kind of worry that only comes from someone who loves Zhan.
Deeply.
Mr. Qiao lowered his head slightly.
“It’s bad, Meilin.”
He admitted.
“But he’s alive. That’s why I brought him here.”
Then—her gaze shifted.
And her eyes landed on Yibo.
She stared.
And the next word slipped out like a prayer.
“Bobo…”
Yibo’s heart skipped.
His breath stilled.
The name hit like thunder in a clear sky.
She took a small step toward him.
Eyes shimmering.
Tried to raise a hand to touch his cheek—but stopped midway…
Unsure.
Yibo didn’t move.
Something in her pause unsettled him.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted her touch or feared it.
“Come in.”
Mrs. Meilin’s voice was soft, almost hesitant.
She stepped aside, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she gestured toward the door.
Yibo gave a small nod, his eyes briefly meeting hers before he followed Mr. Qiao inside.
His thoughts… a storm he couldn’t untangle.
—————————————————–
The air inside the house smelled of jasmine tea and old memories.
The first thing Yibo saw—A framed photo of Zhan, taken on his graduation day.
His gaze swept across the living room.
Everything is neat.
Organized.
Quiet.
Wooden shelves carried trophies.
Medals.
Photos of a life earned through effort—Zhan’s life.
Boxing. Volleyball. Martial arts. Academic excellence.
A life full of purpose.
But next to it—
A photo of Yibo!
Framed.
His graduation day photo.
And next to that— His Master’s Hooding Ceremony portrait.
Yibo’s breath hitched.
My photos?
In a stranger’s house.
Yet, it didn’t feel strange.
It felt… like something he couldn’t even understand.
Yibo stood still, his eyes roaming over the framed memories—pictures, trophies and momentos scattered across the room.
The walls, filled with images of a life he didn’t fully know.
Mr. Qiao and Mrs. Meilin sat quietly on the couch, watching him.
Then Mr. Qiao cleared his throat softly.
“He’s in trouble.”
He said to her.
“But we’re hoping we can save him. There’s still time.”
Mrs. Meilin nodded slowly.
Her voice steady but eyes wet.
“My Xian doesn’t break so easily. I didn’t raise him that way. He’s strong.”
“And he’s loyal… sometimes too loyal.”
Yibo remained silent.
He came back and sat down beside them.
But his eyes never left her.
She glanced at him again—and something tender crossed her face.
“He’s grown up just like him.”
She whispered.
Yibo blinked.
“Like who?”
She didn’t answer.
His gaze drifted back to the framed pictures.
“How do you have these?”
He asked, pointing to his photos.
Meilin hesitated, unable to offer a simple explanation.
Neither she nor Qiao could easily answer that question.
To divert his mind from the question, Mrs. Meilin gently asked.
“Would you like something? Tea or coffee?”
Yibo stiffened slightly.
His voice was sharper than intended.
“See, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who to believe anymore. I don’t even know why Uncle brought me here.”
His eyes locked onto hers.
“And I definitely don’t know who you are or how any of this is connected to me.”
He took a shaky breath.
“All I know is… my Zhan is in trouble and—”
“And you caused that trouble, didn’t you?”
Her words cut through the air—gentle, but firm.
Yibo froze.
Her voice wasn’t angry.
It was pained.
He looked away.
Swallowed hard.
“I didn’t mean to…”
He said quietly.
“If I had known—even for a second—what they were going to do to him, I would’ve never let that man near him. Never.”
His voice cracked.
“I trusted him. And that was my mistake.”
Tears slipped down his face.
Then Yibo turned to her fully.
Voice desperate.
“Please… if you know anything—any way to save him—please tell me. I’ll do anything. Even if it costs me everything. Even if it costs me my life.”
Yibo’s knees gave way, and he dropped onto the floor beside the coffee table, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles turned white.
His breath came in shallow gasps.
His heart thundering in his ears.
He couldn’t stop seeing Zhan’s blood.
Couldn’t stop hearing the silence that followed.
Mrs. Meilin stepped forward—slow, unsure.
Then she knelt beside him.
Her hands trembled as she reached out, gently placing one on his shoulder.
Yibo flinched—just slightly—but didn’t pull away.
She didn’t say anything right away.
She just looked at him.
Tears welled in her eyes.
Her thumb brushed over his shoulder, trembling.
“You asked who I am.”
She said softly.
“You’ll know. All of it. I promise. But first—let me help you save Xian.”
Her voice cracked, and for the first time, Yibo saw it.
Not a stranger.
Not just a woman.
But someone who’d carried years of pain.
Quietly.
Mrs. Meilin moved beside him.
“You should see your Zhan’s room.”
She said gently.
“There are answers there. Pieces you’re missing.”
Still dazed, Yibo stood.
He followed the hall until he reached a room with a nameplate on the door—
贤 (Xian).
He pushed it open.
The room was simple.
Comfortable.
Homey.
Everything was neatly arranged, each item in its place.
The kind of quiet neatness that reminded him of Zhan’s apartment.
In one corner of the room, near the window,
Yibo noticed a large canvas resting on a wooden stand.
Covered with a white cloth, like someone had left it mid-thought.
Beside it, an open shelf stood neatly arranged.
Tubes of oil paint and watercolor trays.
Jars filled with used brushes, their tips stained with memory.
Charcoal sticks, sketch pencils, palettes stacked with dried paint crust.
Jars of linseed oil, fixatives, a roll of masking tape.
Even a stained rag tossed casually over the edge.
It was an artist’s corner.
Lived in. Quiet. Waiting.
But it was the shelf in the corner that pulled him in.
Yibo walked toward it.
Eyes scanning each object.
He found a small box tucked into the bottom drawer.
Locked.
Next to it—an old photo frame.
Two children.
A small boy holding hands with a toddler.
Both smiling.
Happy.
Yibo’s eyes lingered on the photo.
His mind racing as he tried to place the faces.
He picked up the frame slowly, fingers brushing over the glass.
The small boy, no more than five or six.
His smile so familiar.
He hadn’t changed much, not really.
It’s… Zhan.
But the toddler in the picture—
It’s… him!
Yibo’s eyes widened.
Tears welled up.
It’s Zhan and… him.
His heart skipped a beat.
His lips parted, heart pounding.
Behind him, the door creaked.
Mrs. Meilin stood there beside Mr. Qiao.
Her eyes fell on the photo in his hands.
“That was taken on Xian’s sixth birthday.”
She said softly.
“You were just a toddler. But from the moment you were born… he was drawn to you. Like you were a part of him. He looked after you. Protected you.”
“Loved you… with a fierceness I still don’t understand.”
Yibo’s eyes flickered with a hint of surprise.
He didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on the photo.
A quiet ache settling in his chest.
Next to the framed photo, Yibo now noticed a memory box, slightly open.
Inside were yellowed newspaper clippings and a few photographs.
He pulled one out.
Hands trembling.
The headline read:
Wang Corps Safety and Security Officer Mr. Liang Chen Killed in Suspicious Car Accident.
The article clipping was nearly twenty-seven years old.
Its edges brittle with time.
When Yibo saw Liang Chen’s picture in the newspaper clipping…
A chill ran down his spine.
Yibo’s eyes darted between Mr. Qiao and Mrs. Meilin.
His voice trembling with panic.
“Who… who is he? Why does he…..”
He couldn’t finish.
The question crumbled before it left his mouth.
They both remained silent.
The weight of the moment pressing down on them.
He didn’t wait for their answer.
His hands moved on their own.
Tearing through the scattered papers and photographs.
Searching for something, anything, that makes sense.
Next to it—
A photo.
A couple holding a baby in their arms.
Yibo stared at the photo.
Stunned!
It’s the first time he is seeing himself as a baby—In the arms of a woman who looked very familiar.
Almost like the one standing right in front of him now.
And the man in the photo… looked familiar too.
It’s him again.
Yibo’s chest tightened.
He didn’t need anyone to tell him.
His eyes shifted immediately to Mrs. Meilin.
A storm of questions rising inside him.
Something unspoken began to take shape.
He turned back to the scattered photos.
Flipping through them.
Another one—
A woman cradling baby Yibo, both smiling.
Meilin said:
“That’s Xian’s mother. She adored you like her own.”
And the last—
A photograph of the complete family.
Zhan sitting on his father’s lap, his mother standing beside them.
And the same couple from the other photo—holding baby Yibo in their arms.
Everyone smiling together, frozen in time.
And countless pictures of baby Yibo and little Zhan together—taken at different times.
Each one capturing a moment of their shared childhood.
Then more newspaper articles:
A photo of Zhan’s parents, identified as the Mr. Li Han and Mrs. Qian Meiyu.
The headline read:
Wang Corps Finance Manager, Mr. Li Han, and his wife, Mrs. Qian Meiyu, died in a tragic house fire.
Dated back to nearly the same time, almost twenty-seven years ago.
Yibo stared at the photos & the news clippings.
His hands trembling.
Each piece of paper an echo from the past.
Then his eyes were drawn to a small album, tucked carefully between the stacks, with a single word written on the cover: Bobo.
The handwriting was unmistakable – Zhan’s.
His heart skipped a beat.
Without thinking, Yibo reached out.
His fingers grazing the familiar script, and pulled the album from the shelf.
He opened it, and the world around him seemed to fade.
Inside, there was only one thing – Him.
From his nursery school days to his recent award for Best CEO.
Each photograph captured a moment of his life—memories he’d never known were so deeply cherished by anyone.
His development, his growth, his milestones… all of it laid out before him.
It was a detailed record, a collection of moments he had no idea were stored, and carefully preserved.
As Yibo flipped through the pages, his vision blurred.
The tears stinging his eyes and pooling faster than he could wipe them away.
His breath caught in his throat, and his hands shook.
He couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“I thought… I thought Zhan only knew me from the past one or two years.”
Yibo whispered.
“But he… he’s known me since the day I was born. He’s been loving me for so long, maybe even before I realized it.”
The album felt heavier with every page he turned.
There were moments that told him how much Zhan had been a part of his life all along, even when Yibo had no idea.
He could almost feel Zhan’s presence in each photo.
As if the love he had for him had been constant, unwavering.
Long before their paths crossed again.
He also noticed a few greeting cards—faded, carefully kept.
Each one handwritten.
They read,
Happy Birthday, Bobo. With Lots of Love…. Zhan-ge.
In Zhan’s familiar handwriting.
Cards that were never sent.
Just quietly placed next to the photos from Yibo’s birthdays.
As if Zhan had celebrated with him from afar, year after year.
Suddenly, Mr. Qiao’s voice broke through the fog of his thoughts.
“Every year, for any occasion…”
He said gently.
His eyes softening as he spoke.
“I made sure to send your photos to Meilin and Zhan. It was Zhan who asked for it. Ever since the two of you parted, he made sure to collect and keep every single picture of you. He wanted to see you, even from a distance.”
Yibo’s hands froze.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Zhan…”
His voice was almost a whisper, as if saying the name aloud might shatter him even more.
Mrs. Meilin added, her voice thick with emotion.
“Xian didn’t just keep the photos. He would open them, look through them, time and again. Like he was looking for something, something he couldn’t let go of.”
“It was like… you were a part of him. Something precious he couldn’t lose.”
Yibo blinked rapidly, as though trying to clear the blur of tears, but they kept coming.
He didn’t know what to say.
How could he respond to all this?
The realization hit him like a weight, and his heart began to ache with an intensity he had never felt before.
“How could I have missed this?”
He thought.
“How could I have not seen what Zhan was holding on to? All this time, he never let go.”
The world around him felt like it was collapsing.
He thought he knew Zhan’s love.
He thought he understood their connection.
But this… this was beyond anything he could have imagined.
Yibo placed the album down, his hands still shaking.
He couldn’t look at the pages any longer.
Couldn’t face the flood of emotions threatening to drown him.
What had he done to deserve this kind of love?
And why had he never known?
Mrs. Meilin’s voice was gentle now, a little softer.
“He loved you… Bobo. More than you can understand. He always loved you. And he always will.”
She paused, a knowing sadness in her eyes.
“I knew it all along… that Xian loves you.”
“But he—he only realized it himself the day you told him you’d fallen for him.”
Yibo didn’t respond.
He didn’t speak.
His heart was too full, too heavy with the weight of everything he had just learned.
All he knew was that Zhan had always been there…
Even when he hadn’t known.
Yibo’s eyes drifted back to the large canvas—
Still standing there, covered in that white cloth.
He walked toward it, slowly.
Step by step.
The wooden stand creaked faintly as he reached it.
His hands trembled.
And then, gently, he pulled the cloth away.
Underneath—
An oil painting, unfinished.
But clear enough to pierce through him.
Those painted eyes on the canvas…
Almond-shaped, full of pain.
Angry, yet soaked in tears.
Yibo froze.
Because those were the same eyes staring into the canvas right now—
With tears still flowing.
Meilin’s voice broke the silence.
“Xian painted that the last time he came here…right after you found everything out.”
“The boy was so… devastated. He never finished it. I don’t know why.”
Memories surged in Yibo’s mind—
That first glimpse of Zhan on his first day at Wang Corps—standing inside the private elevator with a big smile.
His first kiss, when Yibo kissed him at the penthouse… hesitant but impossible to forget.
Zhan collapsing in his arms, unconscious from the sedatives.
And then—his hands tied, taking the blow from Wang Zheng… blood dripping from his mouth.
Each memory hit like a blade.
One after another.
Sharp.
Merciless.
And suddenly, breathing felt like bleeding to Yibo.
In that moment, he didn’t know whether to cry, scream or sit in silence.
He looked at Meilin, voice shaking.
“Please…”
He whispered.
“Tell me everything.”
“Who am I? What is all this? Why did Zhan never tell me any of this?”
Mrs. Meilin’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Her expression changed—like a storm had just passed through her soul.
Finally, it is time!
All those cursed memories of what happened twenty-seven years ago came flooding back.
And with that…
The truth was ready to break free.
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 