It was after ten in the evening when Zhang Lian returned home.
As usual, he entered “0-6-1-2-3-3” to unlock the door and walked in.
His lone pair of slippers was neatly arranged on the doormat by Housekeeper Chen.
When he stood up to open the cabinet door, Zhang Lian’s hand hovered in mid-air for a second before placing his leather shoes on the rack.
Housekeeper Chen came over and asked what he wanted to eat, but Zhang Lian shook his head.
Housekeeper Chen hesitated, then felt obliged to inform him: “Mimi came over with her parents at noon…”
Zhang Lian said, “I understand.”
Housekeeper Chen didn’t say anything more.
Walking toward the washroom, Zhang Lian casually glanced around the entire living room and kitchen. The decor had returned to its original state, no longer adorned with colorful accents.
The same was true for the bathroom countertop and the bedroom.
At nearly three in the morning, Zhang Lian unconsciously stretched his arm while half-asleep, and in that instant when he grasped at emptiness, he jerked awake as if escaping a nightmare, his eyes opening completely.
He turned over, changing his position from lying on his side to lying flat on his back.
But sleep would not return.
He picked up the phone by his pillow, glanced at the time, then got out of bed and left the room.
The hallway stretched before him like a dark tunnel. He switched on the orange wall light, illuminating the short distance from the master bedroom to the guest room.
The guest room door was tightly shut. He hadn’t entered it since returning home.
His hand gripped the walnut door handle with its antique brass finish for a moment before pressing down.
The room was empty.
As if no one had ever lived there.
Like a hurricane had swept through a garden, carrying away all the flowers.
The space was utterly neat, quiet, and meticulous, yet there was an invisible kind of devastation, imperceptible to the naked eye.
The few traces the girl had left were all on the desk—all the gifts he had given her, each one gleaming like new, as if just taken out of their packaging.
The dark blue HW ring box was placed next to the Pinocchio music box. Zhang Lian opened it, looked inside, closed it, and put it back.
He then picked up the music box, found the spring on the back, and wound it as tight as it would go before setting it down on the edge of the desk.
Finally, more sounds filled the space—the tinkling notes of music.
Zhang Lian sat on the edge of the bed, watching the figurine inside repeat the same movements, playing the entire melody before turning off the light and leaving the room.
—
For nearly ten days after that, Zhou Mi was busy assisting her leader with K’s Dragon Boat Festival snack pre-launch activities—making phone calls, sending emails, organizing meeting minutes, preparing reports, joining conference calls, coordinating various tasks—working herself to exhaustion, keeping her phone unmuted twenty-four hours a day in case of sudden demands from the team or clients.
Busyness was indeed a good medicine for transferring pain.
The high-intensity continuous work left her hardly any leisure time to feel dejected. Only in the quiet of the deep night would she involuntarily click into Zhang Lian’s social media.
Yet she could discover no news of him or his recent situation.
He rarely updated his moments feed—the few posts in the past half year were all industry-related, with nothing about his private life or personal emotions.
His profile picture hadn’t changed either.
Each time she saw it was another heart-wrenching torture and rehabilitation.
But Zhou Mi simply couldn’t stop herself, visiting his unchanging profile every night like a compulsive behavior.
She changed her background from the pin cushion flower back to her previous pink one with the phrase “Surviving on spiritual energy alone.”
Her state at the company also returned to how it was when she first joined Aoxing—basically avoiding any encounter with him. When getting water, she would deliberately take detours or keep her distance.
She seemed truly disconnected from him now, separated by a gulf of hierarchical levels.
One day, she had spotted Zhang Lian from afar.
He was walking with the CD, passing through the client department area. They were talking, probably heading to the creative department for something.
At that moment, Zhou Mi was animatedly chatting with Tao Ziyi across from her.
The man suddenly, unexpectedly entered her field of vision about five meters away. The weather had grown warm, and he had switched to short sleeves—a loose, casual knit style in an eye-catching pale blue, almost white, with some ribbed details. He looked fresh and refined, like the sparkling surface of the sea.
Fortunately, Tao Ziyi’s attention had also been drawn to him, so her abruptly subdued expressions wouldn’t be noticed.
Zhou Mi leaned back in her chair, feeling somewhat dazed as she fidgeted with her fingers before resuming typing on her keyboard.
—
In mid-June, Zhou Mi took leave to return to her university for a graduation farewell dinner hosted by her advisor.
As soon as Xun Fengzhi saw her, she displayed an expression of gentle guilt, although not long ago, she had already shared various sentiments and apologies with Zhou Mi and her parents over the phone, emotionally drained.
Her caring gaze was like looking at her child: “Zhou Mi, have you lost weight?”
Zhou Mi stared into her brown eyes and smiled: “Not at all, maybe I’m just wearing fewer layers.”
Xun Fengzhi said nothing more.
She recorded a ten-second video of her proud students clinking glasses and shared it on her Moments feed.
Zhang Lian watched it many times.
Everyone at the table stood up for a toast, shouting in unison and congratulating each other—”May your future be as brilliant as brocade—See you again at the summit.” Zhou Mi appeared briefly, her smile clean and bright, carefree.
The next day at the company, he was distracted all morning.
The aftereffect was like having a part of his body stolen without his knowledge, and he had only just realized it.
In that moment, he desperately wanted to see Zhou Mi—to see her up close, the flesh-and-blood her, to see in person what she looked like now.
Just once would suffice.
Just enough to relieve this sudden anxiety and emptiness that left him almost helpless.
Finding an excuse to visit the client department, he discovered Zhou Mi’s seat was empty, and the cup on her desk had been replaced with an entirely white one.
Zhang Lian took a deep breath.
After returning to his office, he indirectly inquired about the current progress and details of the K project via WeChat and learned that they would be at the Dragon Boat Festival-themed pop-up store for the next few days.
Zhang Lian immediately left the company, went home to retrieve the two rings Zhou Mi had given him from his safe, then drove to the street with the pop-up store.
He had never driven at such a speed on this road before.
The black Porsche wasn’t blatantly parked across the street, but rather positioned behind a sign that provided some concealment.
Leaning against the seat, Zhang Lian lowered his head and opened Zhou Mi’s WeChat, sending her a message without hesitation: Where are you? Can we meet?
After watching the store’s festive decorations for a while, a reply came: What is it?
Zhang Lian spent a long time composing his words: I still have the rings. Do you want to come get them, or should I give them to you?
Her response came unexpectedly fast: Don’t want them anymore, just throw them away.
Although he had anticipated a similar answer, fine needles of pain began to consume his heart, making even breathing somewhat difficult.
Zhang Lian tossed his phone back onto the center console and turned his head to look out the window again.
This time, his gaze did not move away.
At some point, Zhou Mi had come outside. She was wearing a strappy dress in vibrant, intense colors, like a flower from Monet’s paintings. Jijie walked beside her, each holding an ice cream cone. The man turned his head and said something to her, and she suddenly broke into a sun-bright laugh, quickly covering her mouth, her small, rounded shoulders slightly shaking.
They both stood in the dense shade, their faces radiant—a scene one would only find described in poetry collections.
Dazzling, yet equally beautiful.
Zhang Lian’s surging thoughts calmed in an instant.
Like a reader at a book’s final chapter, an audience at a play’s end, a visitor at a gallery’s furthest point—he couldn’t help but smile slightly along with her.
After a moment, he withdrew his gaze and drove away.