The night was too long.
Gu Ze Yan sat on the sofa until dawn, body bent forward, elbows pressing into his knees, fingers tangled in his hair. The small box with the ring still lay on the table in front of him, mocking him with its quietness. Her hairclip, the bank card he had given her, the note with only four words—I'm sorry, goodbye—they lay scattered like fragments of a shattered dream.
His eyes burned, but no more tears came. It was as if grief had drained even his ability to cry. He stared blankly at the shadows retreating on the floor as morning light slipped through the curtains.
Yesterday, she had smiled so brightly, had kissed him softly, had let him hold her. They had talked of the future, of love, of staying together. Tonight, she was gone.
Why?
The question pounded in his skull like a hammer. Why would she leave when everything seemed so close to perfect? Why would she disappear without explanation?
But no answer came. Only silence.
---
He forced himself to wash, though the reflection in the mirror was almost foreign—hollow eyes, skin ashen, lips pressed too tightly as if holding back screams.
He called her phone again. Still turned off. Text messages piled up unsent, unsent, unsent.
He went to the bookstore café—dark, shutters closed. He went to the tutoring center—empty classroom, no trace of her. He even stood by the bridge where they once strolled, watching the river flow beneath the city lights, hoping, just hoping, that her slender figure would appear in the distance.
Nothing.
She was like a ghost erased from Liangcheng.
---
At Luminar, he showed up, but only in body. Meetings rolled on around him; words from staff, from Shen Qiao, from Chen Rui—all reached his ears but never settled in his mind. He stared at screens but saw nothing.
Chen Rui entered once with his usual grin, about to crack a joke, but stopped dead when he saw him. The man who had once carried entire boardrooms with the power of his gaze now sat slumped, as if his soul had slipped away.
Chen Rui had never seen him like this.
Silently, he placed a cup of hot tea by Ze Yan's hand, along with a small packet of snacks. "Boss… eat a little." His voice was subdued, stripped of teasing.
Ze Yan didn't answer. His eyes were glazed, his fingers resting loosely on the keyboard. But Chen Rui stayed a moment longer before leaving, his heart heavy.
---
Two Weeks of Silence
More than two weeks passed.
Still no word. No sign.
Gu Ze Yan drove aimlessly one evening, his heart a lead weight. The city outside his windshield blurred with rain. He found himself steering unconsciously toward her old apartment complex.
The police tape was gone. The trial was over. The man who had hurt her and Si Yao had been sentenced. Ze Yan had attended every session, hoping—just once—to see her there. But she never came.
He climbed the familiar stairs, opened the door.
Dust. Coldness. Air that had not been breathed for months.
Si Yao's room, untouched, schoolbooks still neatly stacked. Qing Yun's tiny space, stripped of warmth. He searched every drawer, every corner, as if she might have left a message for him hidden in the cracks. Nothing.
The silence pressed down on him, suffocating. He stumbled outside, desperate for air.
---
The Neighbors' Circle
Below, a cluster of aunties and uncles gathered on benches, steaming cups of tea in their hands. They were chatting, gossiping, laughing in the winter dusk. When they noticed him, one of the aunties squinted, then gasped.
"Isn't that… Xiao Lin's friend? Qing Yun's friend?"
Before he could retreat, they waved him over warmly.
"Aiyo, come, sit, young man. Drink some tea, it's cold today." Auntie Zhu, the most talkative, pressed a cup into his hands before he could refuse.
He lowered himself onto the bench, hands stiff around the warm porcelain.
"What brings you back here?" she asked.
He hesitated, then said quietly, "I wanted to check on her apartment."
The neighbors exchanged looks. Auntie Zhu sighed. "That place… the landlord says the rent is due, wants to sell it. But who dares buy? With such a tragedy tied to it? The police line made it look haunted."
Another nodded in agreement. "Yes, yes, people are superstitious."
Auntie Wu leaned closer. "How is Qing Yun now? We haven't seen her in so long."
Ze Yan's throat tightened. He forced a smile. "She's fine. She's… in the place she wants to be."
The auntie looked relieved, patting her chest. "That child… such a good kid. Never cried, never complained. Always protecting her little sister."
They began to reminisce, voices overlapping:
"I remember when their mother left… Qing Yun never shed a tear. She held Si Yao close, telling her everything would be fine."
"Yes, she always smiled, even when her life was hardest. She was so strong, so cheerful—made us all love her."
"When we helped her, she always found ways to repay us. If not with money, then by helping with chores, or looking after sick neighbors."
"Such a pity, such a pity. She was brilliant in school. Could've gone to university. But fate… ah, fate is cruel."
Their voices blended, filling the winter air with stories of her kindness, her sacrifices, her strength.
Ze Yan's chest tightened painfully. How much had she hidden from him? How much pain had she buried beneath that smile?
Auntie Zhu placed a hand on his arm. "Young man, take care of her. Now she has no one. Si Yao's death must have broken her inside, even if she never shows it. She devoted her whole life to her sister. Too much. More than a mother would give."
He lowered his gaze, forcing a small nod. "I will. If… if I can find her."
---
Leaving with Heavy Heart
The neighbors drifted into gossip about lighter matters. He set down the empty cup, rose, and thanked them sincerely for caring for Qing Yun and Si Yao all these years.
Before he left, he turned to Auntie Zhu. "If she… ever comes back here, please call me immediately." He handed her his number.
She looked puzzled but promised.
Walking back to his car, he felt their eyes on him, their murmurs following like echoes of her past.
Inside the car, he sat still for a long time, gripping the steering wheel, staring at the reflection of his own weary face in the windshield.
Her smile rose before him—bright, unshakable, like sunlight.
"How much pain did you hide, Sunny?" he whispered to the empty night. "How much did I never see?"
The silence gave no answer.
He started the engine. The ring in his pocket felt heavier than gold.