Betrayal of the Adopted Boy

On the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month, with the festive spirit filling the whole street, I was crouched in the foyer playing with building blocks when the door knocker thudded loudly. The butler opened the door, and a cold wind filled with snowflakes burst in. I looked up and saw a boy half a head shorter than me. He wore tattered clothes, his lips purple from the cold, his right hand clutching a dirty cloth bandage, his left ear pressed against the door as if listening for any sound inside. "Miss, he's just a little beggar, and it looks like something's wrong with his ear." The Butler tried to persuade him to leave. I didn't move, my eyes fixed on his exposed ankle — reddened and still smeared with mud. Suddenly, he looked up at me, his eyes shining like stars in the snow, then fell to his knees with a thud. His forehead struck the cold stone again and again, the dull thuds pounding against my heart. "Please... take me in..." he croaked hoarsely. "I can work... I can do anything..." I counted to ninety-nine blows; blood was oozing from his forehead. I grabbed the butler's sleeve sharply. "Let him in." That night, I had the butler bring some clean cotton clothes and had the kitchen prepare hot soup. He held the bowl with trembling hands. Sitting across from him, I noticed a scar behind his left ear—later, the doctor said it was from a childhood injury that damaged his auditory nerve. I named him Yale Lincoln. "From now on, you stay with me. My name is Quincy Scott. Remember it well." He nodded, finished the last drop of soup, and whispered, "Quincy..." That was the first time he called my name—soft as cotton. Since then, Yale Lincoln became a part of my life. I went to the elite school, dragging him along; when the teachers wouldn't let him in, I sat by the school gate crying until the principal finally relented. When I was ten, I saved my pocket money for half a year to buy him his first hearing aid. The day he put it on, he stood in the yard, listening to the wind rustling the leaves, then suddenly grabbed my hand and smiled, “Quincy, I can hear it!” The sunlight was warm, his smile even brighter than the sun, and I thought we would always stay this close. I began helping him find ENT specialists, from hospitals in the Capital City to experts abroad, filling an entire drawer with his medical records. When he was fifteen, his old hearing aid got damp and broke. I dragged the butler to three imported stores across the Capital City, compared seven models, and chose the one with the best noise reduction. The doctor said he's sensitive to background noise, and loud sounds give him headaches. I have a blue notebook filled with his restrictions: no spicy food, remove the hearing aid before showering, and get check-ups in spring and autumn. Before the college entrance exam at seventeen, I called in favors three times and waited two mornings at Shawn Hospital just to get an appointment with Bill Shawn. Bill Shawn is my cousin—the most renowned ENT specialist in the country and the head of Shawn Group. He looked at Yale Lincoln's medical record: "With another six months of care, he can undergo cochlear implant surgery, and the success rate is very high." I held Yale's hand as we bought a strawberry cake: "Yale, once your surgery succeeds, we'll go to university down South. It's warmer there, and better for your ears." He nodded and fed me the biggest strawberry, his eyes shining with laughter. I thought the future was right there in front of me. Ten days after the College Entrance Exam, Yale Lincoln and I had planned to visit the universities he was applying to. That morning, he messaged me saying his ear hurt and told me to go on my own. "Quincy, don't worry. I'm resting at home, waiting for you to come back and tell me what the campus looks like." I didn't think much, packed my things, and headed to the station. While waiting for the bus, I wanted to remind him to eat lunch, so I called him. It rang for only a second before being cut off. My heart skipped a beat. Panicked, I opened the villa's surveillance app. The screen popped up, and the bus ticket in my hand slipped to the floor. In the walk-in closet, Yale Lincoln was leaning against the clothes rack, fiddling with my pearl hairpin. Nearby stood a girl, cutting apart the haute couture evening gown my father gave me for my last birthday. That girl was Yolanda Morgan, a struggling student at our school who often asked Yale for help. I had even helped her a few times before. "Yale, will Quincy be mad if she finds out?" Yolanda smiled, tossed the cut-off hem of the dress onto the floor, then went to grab the limited edition bag. Yale didn't stop her; he hugged her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "So what if she's mad? She's never lost her temper with me." A few boys nearby, who were Yale's friends, laughed and pointed at the clothes. "Yale, Quincy treats you like a treasure. Even if you cut up some clothes or burned down the walk-in closet, she wouldn't dare say a harsh word." Yale raised an eyebrow. "She wouldn't dare."