In the first hour after her mother passed, Song Qingci sat on a bench in the hospital corridor.
The death certificate was clutched in her hand, its edge cutting into her palm, a faint sting. She didn't cry. She just sat there, watching the sunlight at the end of the hallway creep toward her inch by inch.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out. A news alert.
Lu Corporation Heir Lu Yan Attends Chelsea Art Exhibition with Girlfriend Lin Weiyue, Marriage Expected Soon
The photo showed Lu Yan and Lin Weiyue together. Lin Weiyue wore a champagne-colored gown, her arm linked through Lu Yan's, her smile sweet. Lu Yan wore a black suit, his expression indifferent, but there was a faint curve at the corner of his mouth.
He was smiling.
On the day her mother died, he was smiling.
Song Qingci stared at the photo for a long time. Then she turned off the screen and put the phone back in her pocket.
A nurse walked down the hallway. "Ms. Song, we need your signature at the morgue."
"All right."
She stood. Her legs were weak; she steadied herself against the wall. The death certificate was folded small, clenched in her palm.
The morgue was in the basement. When the elevator doors opened, a wave of cold air rushed out. The corridor lights were white, casting a pale, sickly glow on everyone's faces.
An attendant led her to a table and handed her a document.
"Please confirm the deceased's information."
She looked down. Chen Yulan. Female. Fifty-four years old. Cause of death: multiple organ failure.
"Confirmed."
"Please sign."
She picked up the pen and wrote her name on the signature line. Song Qingci. Three characters, stroke by stroke, very slowly.
She remembered three years ago, also in a hospital, signing another document—the stand-in contract. Her hand had trembled then because Lu Yan was sitting across from her, watching her like she was merchandise.
Now her hand was steady. Because no one was watching. Only herself.
"Condolences." The attendant handed her a copy.
She took it and walked out of the morgue.
As the elevator doors were about to close, a hand reached in and stopped them.
"Wait."
It was Rachel.
She wore a pilled sweater, her hair a mess, clearly just woken up. When she saw Song Qingci, without a word, she pulled her into a hug.
"How did you know?" Song Qingci's voice was calm.
"You texted me at three in the morning saying 'My mother's not going to make it.' I fell asleep and didn't see it until I woke up. I'm sorry I'm late."
"It's okay."
Rachel held her, feeling her body tremble.
"You can cry," Rachel said.
"I don't want to."
"Then don't."
The two stood in the elevator. The doors opened and closed, and no one came in.
Rachel released her and glanced at the death certificate in her hand.
"That… Lu Yan. Does he know?"
"Know what?"
"That your mother's gone."
Song Qingci didn't answer.
Rachel pulled out her phone and saw the news alert. Her expression changed.
"He's at an art exhibition?" Rachel's voice rose. "Your mother died today, and he's at an art exhibition?"
"He's with Lin Weiyue." Song Qingci's voice was flat, as if discussing something that didn't involve her. "It's normal. I'm not Mrs. Lu anymore."
"But—"
"Rachel," Song Qingci interrupted her, "I promised my mother something."
"What?"
"To leave him."
Rachel looked at her, her eyes reddening.
"Have you done it?"
Song Qingci looked down at the death certificate in her hand.
"Almost."
They walked out of the hospital. New York's December sun was bright, but the wind was cold. Song Qingci stood at the entrance, tilting her face up, letting the light fall on it.
"Rachel, go back first. I want to walk a bit."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Rachel hesitated, nodded, and turned away.
Song Qingci walked alone along the streets. She didn't know where she was going. She just walked. She passed a Chinese restaurant with a help-wanted sign in the window. She passed a supermarket with newspapers at the entrance bearing Lu Yan and Lin Weiyue's photo. She stopped, looking at the newspaper.
Then she reached out, took it from the stand, tore it in half, and dropped it in the trash.
She walked to the East River and leaned against the railing.
The water was gray-green. Wind blew across it, carrying a briny smell. She took the ring from her pocket—the wedding ring wound with red thread.
She unwound the thread.
One loop, two loops, three loops.
The red thread had been wrapped around it for so long that when she removed it, a faint mark remained on the ring.
She held the ring up to the light. The three-carat diamond refracted a spectrum of colors, beautiful. But too big. Too big to be hers.
"Lu Yan," she said to the river, "do you know? My mother died. Six forty-seven this morning. You were in Chelsea, at an art exhibition, beside Lin Weiyue. You didn't answer my calls. You didn't reply to my messages. You don't even know that one person left this world."
She clenched the ring in her palm, the metal digging into her skin.
"But before she died, I promised her something."
She took a deep breath.
"I promised her I would leave you."
She threw the ring into the river.
It arced through the air, sunlight flashing on the diamond, then dropped into the water. A soft plop, small, quickly scattered by the wind.
Ripples spread across the surface, then disappeared.
Song Qingci stood by the river, watching the ripples expand and fade.
The wind stopped.
She tucked her hands into her pockets and turned around.
In her pockets were only her student ID, a single coin, and a death certificate.
She began to walk back.
Her pace was unhurried, but steady.
She knew that from this moment, her life had nothing more to do with Lu Yan.
Not because of hate.
Because he wasn't worth it.
Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out. A message from Lu Yan's assistant:
"Mr. Lu would like to know when it's convenient for you to sign the divorce papers."
She looked at the message and typed two words:
"Anytime."
Send.
Then she turned off her phone and kept walking.
Behind her, the East River flowed on. The ring lay at the bottom, covered by silt, invisible forever.
Like those three years, buried under a New York winter.
She reached her basement door, opened it, and went inside.
The six-square-meter room. The door-plank desk. The clamp lamp. The mothballs in the corners.
She placed the death certificate on the desk and switched on the lamp.
The light was dim, but enough.
She opened her book to the chapter for tomorrow's exam.
Her pen scratched across the paper.
Outside the grate, the sky darkened.
No one knew that on this ordinary Tuesday, a girl named Song Qingci had thrown away a ring by the East River.
She had said something.
Her voice was so soft only the river heard.
"Lu Yan, I don't love you anymore."