Chapter 587: Miss Yale, Spend New Year’s Eve Well
On the eve of the Lunar New Year, the sky begins to sprinkle with snowflakes.
The gloomy horizon gradually loses daylight, only the last hint of light lingers.
Snowflakes dance like catkins in the spring, landing on the tops of trees, roofs, and the ground.
Inside a classic and exquisite courtyard house.
In the yard, a tall pomegranate tree stands majestically.
Its bare branches slant towards the sky, dissecting it into pieces of a puzzle.
A tall man stands in the biting wind.
His facial contours are as firm and resolute as if they were chiseled. His thin lips are tightly pressed, his gaze loaded with depths of frosty chill.
Sylvan Cheney, dressed in a long black coat, directs his deep gaze at the vast, snowy sky in the distance.
The sky is gloomy, without sun, and the surroundings are shrouded in fog.
A cigarette is sandwiched between his right fingers.
The cigarette end quietly burns. With a gust of wind, the ash falls, landing at the edge of his black leather shoes.
He squints slightly, his brows tightly knit.
His eyes beam with a cold and gloomy luster, flickering and faint as if it were there and yet not.
He raises his hand for a drag, smoke slowly rises alongside his face.
The chilling northern wind rustles his coat, making fluttering sounds.
Under the pomegranate tree, the tall man stands upright, outstandingly independent.
“Mr. Cheney, it’s New Year’s Eve.” Charles Mcintosh approaches him from behind.
“Hmm.” Sylvan Cheney brushes off the ash from his cigarette, a glint flickers in his eyes.
The lights come on, extending his shadow at great length.
“Mr. Cheney, Miss Smallie and Mr. Chale Cheney are spending the New Year together. Miss Smallie has taken Chale home.”
Sylvan Cheney remains silent.
“Mr. Cheney, it’s snowing, and dinner is prepared.” Mcintosh says.
“You go ahead.” Sylvan Cheney instructs indifferently.
Mcintosh complies, nodding, and walks away.
Only when he has walked a certain distance does he turn back for a glance at Sylvan Cheney.
This is Mr. Cheney’s first New Year spent alone, without Qiana Childe or Jasmine Yale or Chale Cheney.
But this man is strong enough to bear this meaningless solitude and loneliness.
His shoulders are broad enough to withstand all the chilling winds and bitter rains.
Beneath his shoulders is only warmth and a purely innocent world.
All the bloodshed, conspiracy, and darkness are kept out by his resilience.
The night grows darker.
Mcintosh observes that Sylvan Cheney stands outside with eyes resting in the distance.
The place is quiet and unobtrusive.
One can faintly hear the sounds of firecrackers, but it is predominantly serene and peaceful.
Mcintosh calls Jasmine Yale.
Jasmine Yale is busy feeding the little guy some ribs!
The little one eats heartily and laughs, banging on the table and playing with Jasmine Yale.
Jasmine Yale answers the call and steps out onto the balcony.
She’s worried the youngster might overhear.
“Miss Yale, Happy New Year’s Eve.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mcintosh, the same to you.” Jasmine Yale greets backs.
“I heard that you’re taking care of Mr. Chale Cheney.”
“Yes, I brought him home. Do you think I am meddling too much?” Jasmine Yale blinks.
“Take good care of him.”
Jasmine Yale laughs: “I thought you might think I have ulterior motives for caring for Chale Cheney.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way.” Mcintosh is calm, “I know what kind of person you are.”
All of a sudden, Jasmine Yale feels touched.
Although Mcintosh is a man of few words, his comment indeed moves her.
“Thank you, Mr. Mcintosh.”
Someone still trusts her.
“I trust you can take good care of Chale Cheney.” Mcintosh says.
“I won’t let you down. Are you still in Lonton?”