Old Li prided himself on being a competent driver—diligent, discreet, and unfailingly loyal. The job was a little dull, sure, but now and then his inner gossip would stretch its legs. Like today, when he spent his entire lunch break wondering about his boss's unusual mood.
So the moment Chen Jin returned that afternoon—looking unreasonably relaxed—Old Li's first instinct was to check the car for blood. Not what you're thinking; this had nothing to do with backseat escapades. He was worried the boss, in a fit of rage, had "snapped" and dumped that girl somewhere, in which case it would be his duty to, well, tidy up the mess.
Fortunately, there were no signs of a crime. There was, however, one extraneous item: a black leather wallet embossed with a small flower—French brand, Montagut. Old Li turned the wallet over in his hands, imagination sputtering to life, and that evening he presented it to his boss with a solemn air, carefully watching for a reaction.
Chen Jin glanced down, and a faint grin tugged at his mouth. The expression made Old Li's stomach dip. You rarely saw that look on his face—more common, perhaps, in men in love. The thought startled him so much he stole another glance in the rearview mirror.
Chen Jin, absorbed in the wallet and his own thoughts, didn't notice. With zero concern for privacy, he flipped it open. Bank cards. A scatter of bills. But it was the photo tucked in the inner sleeve that caught his eye.
A snapshot: a young couple framed by sunshine and trees—or rather, a boy and a girl, with that unmistakable glow of studenthood. It looked like a candid. They'd been facing each other; someone must have called out. The girl turned toward the camera. The boy didn't—his gaze clung to her.
He was handsome in an easy, open way, the type adored on any campus. But his eyes held only her, as if the rest of the world had vanished. He grinned like an idiot—the happiest man alive.
Chen Jin traced the girl's face with his forefinger. There was still a touch of baby fat in her cheeks, a sheen of youth under the sun. Her hair was shorter than now, tied up in a ponytail and blown slightly askew—but not in an ugly way. She must have been laughing seconds earlier; her mouth was still caught in a crescent smile, teeth bright as porcelain. Even her brows smiled, and her eyes—dark, glossy grapes.
He went very still. The expression was unfamiliar. The Lin Wan he knew only ever cried, raged, mocked—or stared him down with frostbitten indifference. Never this—never lighthearted, guileless joy.
"So you do have a nice smile," he murmured.
He slipped the photo out and found another behind it: an old black-and-white portrait of a chubby-cheeked child, five or six years old, hair in two stiff little ponytails. The features were already there if you looked—today's face in miniature. Unlike the first picture, this little Lin Wan frowned, two tiny furrows knitting between her brows, lips pouting, clearly unwilling to be photographed. In those big, dark eyes was a stubbornness he recognized.
That look felt familiar—exactly how she glared at him, even when she was losing: bristling, unyielding, hostile, unimpressed.
There is a saying: the dead find peace only when laid to rest.
The cemetery had been chosen; the date set by a feng shui master. It was time for Wang Xiao's burial.
At the service, his mother cried until she nearly fainted. His father, in a wheelchair, kept wiping at his tears. Friends and relatives blinked back wet eyes, some sobbing under their breath. Tragedy is plentiful in this world—unfolding every minute in disasters and misfortunes of every kind. "Dying young" might read like just another phrase on paper. Only the ones who loved him knew the weight of it.
Lin Wan's composure surprised people. She didn't wail, didn't shed a tear. She stood straight, staring ahead. Look closely, though, and you'd see her body trembling. Her eyes were dry—but empty as a sealed tomb.
She watched the officiant's mouth open and close, hands drawing solemn shapes in the air. The words came to her as if through cotton; she heard nothing. Only when the moment of interment arrived did she squeeze her eyes shut and clench her fists so hard her nails gouged her palms—anything to stop herself from running forward and fighting them for the box.
When the ceremony ended, she left with the others—then slipped back alone. Wang's parents had relatives with them; they wouldn't be alone. And she needed time with him. Just him.
Each step toward the gravestone was a struggle, as if this were the real funeral. She glanced up. The sky had gone the color of ash; even the sun was a dull, smudged outline. It must be looking away, she thought. It can't bear to watch a good person be buried.
She looked around at the rows of solitary stones. How many of them sheltered someone as kind and undeserving as Wang Xiao?
They say there are gods three feet above our heads—that heaven sees what people do. Do you? She wondered. She had always been a timid atheist, respectful of gods in theory, East or West. Now she felt only this: heaven was blind. God was dead.
She shut her eyes, then crouched and studied the fresh stone as if it were a foreign object, brow faintly furrowed. Lifting a thin finger, she traced the newly carved characters of his name—Wang Xiao—down to the base.
A pity her own name couldn't be there.
The living widow, Lin Wan.
And then the reaction that should have come hours earlier finally arrived.
A hitching breath. A broken sob. And then the flood—howling grief.
People say great sorrow is silent. Maybe for a heartbeat. But no violent feeling can stay caged. Grief like this is magma under the crust—when it's blocked, it only gathers heat and erupts twice as fiercely.
Lost in the roar of it, she didn't notice the sky darkening, the clouds thickened, the air went damp with a thousand needles of rain. Not that it would have mattered. Today was his burial. New place, unfamiliar earth—he would need her. She would not leave him. She didn't see how the cemetery had become a thing to shiver at.
Between a gray heaven and a gray ground, the stones shone with a pallid greenish light, solemn and strange. Thunder rolled and rolled, louder each time, like a summons for sleeping souls.
If a film crew had come to shoot a certain kind of scene, post-production could have taken the day off. Nature had done the color grading already. The gods of earth and sky, indifferent to human sorrow, still had an impeccable taste for the atmosphere.
The rain finally broke—and came hard. In minutes, she was soaked through.
She gave a crooked smile. "See that, Wang Xiao? I cursed heaven, and it threw a tantrum. Petty, isn't it?" She swiped at her face. "Still, it's not all bad. All that thunder, and not one bolt aimed right at me. Maybe its aim is just lousy."
A joke drifted up—some old priest and a golf swing. So even God can slice a ball. Figures.
The downpour thickened, falling at a slant like a volley of arrows. The shafts struck her without mercy. She wrapped her arms around the stone and did not move, as if fusing herself to it. If he were here, he would already be running—scolding her for not taking care of herself, shrugging off his coat to cover her head, scooping her up and sprinting through the rain.
Her head grew heavy. She sank into the undertow of missing him—his steady warmth, his gentle voice, the cadence of his breath. Everything. I miss everything.
And maybe devotion calls things down. She felt arms—strong and sure—lifting her from the ground. She leaned into a broad, warm chest. A low voice scolded, threaded with a rough tenderness. Wind and rain hissed in her ears; beneath it, the hot, convincing drum of a heartbeat.
She smiled. He was running fast—he always ran fast; his legs were long. So fast.
She wanted to look at him, but her eyelids were ironed. She wanted to speak, but her lips had been glued shut. I'm just tired, she thought. It's fine. As long as we're together.
In this world or the next.
When Lin Wan opened her eyes again, twilight had fallen. The familiar layout told her she was back in the hospital. Ten days had felt like a lifetime, and half of that life had been spent here. What a cursed place.
She wore regulation stripes. An IV needle bit the back of her hand; the cool drip slid into her veins. She touched her face—hot. Not just hot—burning. Of course, she had a fever. In a storm like that, it was a miracle she hadn't gone stupid.
Then again, if she had—wouldn't that hurt less?
A nurse came in to check the line. The white uniform made Lin Wan think, angels in white—but not real angels. If she were, Lin Wan would beg her to ask God whether Wang Xiao had reported to heaven.
But did God exist? If he did, hadn't she offended him earlier? Would that get Wang Xiao in trouble?
Her brows knotted; her free hand twisted the sheet. The nurse adjusted the drip rate and asked gently, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want me to call the doctor?"
Lin Wan looked up, unfocused, then shook her head.
The nurse pressed a cool palm onto her forehead. "Still a bit feverish. You'll probably need another bag." She handed over a thermometer.
Five minutes later, she read it and nodded. "Thirty-eight point five—much better. You should've seen yourself when they brought you in. Forty-one degrees! Your boyfriend was beside himself, kept demanding a specialist. If every high fever needed a specialist, the poor folks would never get a break." She chatted as she filled out the chart, only to glance up and find her patient staring, slack-jawed.
"What's wrong?"
"My boyfriend is dead," Lin Wan said quietly. "Today was his funeral."
The clipboard slipped from the nurse's hands and clattered to the floor. Medical training should have steeled her against drama, but—this? This was too eerie.
Lin Wan replayed the sensation she'd had in the downpour—the warmth of that hold, the safety of that chest. So like—
"No," she said, shaking her head at herself. "It couldn't have been him." Then, to the nurse: "What did the man who brought me in look like?"
"Handsome," the nurse stammered, still pale. "Authoritative" A little scary."
Lin Wan's frown deepened. Wang Xiao was never scared. He was always gentle. Disappointment pinched her chest; then she laughed at herself for being foolish. Of course, it wasn't him. She grabbed the bag on the bedside table, rummaged out a few crumpled bills, and asked, "Did that person pay the fees? Would there be a name on the receipt?"
"I'll check at the nurse's station," she blurted, and fled—forgetting the clipboard on the floor.
She was back in under two minutes. "The receipt's under your name."
Lin Wan sighed. A good Samaritan, then. The kind that didn't leave a name. She looked at the nurse's anxious face and managed a small, rueful smile. "Don't worry. Probably just a kind passerby."
The nurse eased, then hesitated. "But he… he seemed to know you. He looked really concerned, and he sat with you through the drip. Later he had to go—he came to ask us to keep an eye on him. And, um… he held your hand. For a while."
Lin Wan's right hand—the one without the needle—jerked, then scrubbed at the sheet as if to erase something. A faint wave of disgust rose in her throat.
"Maybe a secret admirer?" the nurse ventured, trying to make sense of it.
Lin Wan snorted. Admirer? Doubtful. One thing was certain: the man had issues—and a habit of taking liberties. Whatever gratitude she might have felt evaporated on the spot.