“I hope you’ll understand. Unless I die — I will not let go.”

As he spoke those words, the unwavering certainty in Lin Luxiao’s eyes pierced Nan Yueru deep. A long time ago, another man had said something very similar to her on a rainy evening.

He had said: “I won’t waver.”

The more resolute those words had been when he said them, the more ruthless it had been when he left. Nan Yueru found it laughable. “Do you think I’ll believe you?”

Lin Luxiao turned to look out the window. The rain was falling harder now, as though a net had been cast across the whole sky, trapping them inside. He turned back, met Nan Yueru’s gaze, and gave the faintest of smiles.

“As long as Nan Chu believes me — that’s enough.”

Nan Yueru’s expression was entirely composed. “I don’t approve of you two being together.”

Lin Luxiao said nothing.

Nan Yueru continued: “Yes — I haven’t paid much attention to her growing up. But she’s still my daughter, and in matters this significant I still have a say as her mother. My only reason for not approving is this: she loves you too much.”

What kind of reason was that. Lin Luxiao frowned.

Nan Yueru: “And between the nation and her — choose one.”

Lin Luxiao said nothing.

“You can’t choose, can you?” Nan Yueru folded her arms and gave a cold laugh. “Soldiers are all the same — fine words about everything, but when the nation truly needs them, they’re the first to leave their wives behind. I’m not here to judge your profession and its spirit. I’m sorry — I am a mother. I have to think about her future. If she truly stays with you, I’m afraid she’ll spend her whole life unable to find her way out.”

From behind them came a low, deep, steady voice.

“Yueru — you’re being too extreme.”

Both of them turned. Standing in the doorway was a slightly stooped silhouette with hands clasped behind him. The figure took a few measured steps forward, and a kind, weathered face gradually came into the light.

Lin Luxiao stood. “Dad.”

Lin Qingyuan waved him off and settled into the seat beside him. He glanced at Nan Yueru, who had gone silent, and said with a rare note of teasing: “My, my — the overseas water must agree with you. Not a day older.”

Nan Yueru gave a dismissive sound. “What are you doing here?”

Lin Qingyuan glanced at Lin Luxiao with something approaching reproach, though his words were directed at Nan Yueru: “We haven’t seen each other in over a decade. Do you really have to greet me with that face?”

Nan Yueru was merciless. “You should be grateful I’m not kicking you.”

Lin Qingyuan had that retorted straight back at him, and turned to his son with an expression of mild embarrassment, deliberately saying: “This is your Auntie Nan. She used to be in the same performance troupe as your mother. Then she went into the entertainment industry, made a few films, and became too distinguished to bother with old acquaintances like us.”

Lin Luxiao had rarely seen Lin Qingyuan quite like this. He studied Nan Yueru with a faintly amused look.

Nan Yueru was furious. “Have you gone senile? What are you rambling about?”

Lin Qingyuan gave a quiet sigh. The past unspooled slowly in the night.

That year, the performance troupe had gone to the countryside, and it happened to bring them to the military unit where Lin Qingyuan and Nan Chu’s father were stationed. Conditions at the base were quite poor — all men, nobody bothering with niceties.

Nan Yueru met Nan Chu’s father on the rooftop while he was smoking.

Compared to Lin Luxiao’s mother — who had been lively and cheerful — Nan Yueru was quieter by nature. She always walked with a slight furrow of the brow, as though carrying some unnamed weight.

The two of them had run into each other on the rooftop several times while smoking, and said nothing to each other.

Until one day, Nan Yueru found she’d run out of her lighter and asked the man leaning silently against the wall for a light. He glanced at her briefly — and didn’t bother. That disdainful look stirred something in the depths of Nan Yueru’s nature: the desire to conquer.

She had just been about to speak when she heard him say: “Women smoking — what for?”

Naturally Nan Yueru didn’t accept that. One thing led to another, and she began picking fights with him — at first deliberately finding fault, and later just finding excuses to seek him out.

They were both young and hot-blooded. At the start, the man was genuinely cold — unmoved. Then one evening after a performance, one of the younger soldiers got ideas of his own, and that finally provoked him.

The first time happened in a hay barn. Even recounting it now seemed absurd. Afterward, the man had a moment of regret — it had happened too fast; he should have held himself back a little longer.

But Nan Yueru was even calmer than he was. She said there was nothing for him to take responsibility for — it was just a brief encounter. When they eventually parted ways, they could treat each other as strangers. Simple enough.

The man was rattled by that.

He kept his distance from her for a long time. A strange, inexplicable cold war settled between them — until the day before Nan Yueru was set to leave the unit. She went to find him one last time.

They lay on the ground that night looking up at the stars.

The man had somehow gotten word of something about her situation. He lay there smoking, and suddenly told her to wait for him. He would work his way up, earn enough money, pay off her family’s debts, and come and marry her.

Nan Yueru’s family was from the countryside. Her older brother had gone into business in the city but had been swindled out of everything and left deep in debt on top of it. At one point her father and brother had nearly sold her off to pay it back.

Her mother had taken a beating from her father to get her out of the house. It happened that around that time the performance troupe had come recruiting at her school. An older teacher there had taken a particular liking to Nan Yueru, feeling that the girl’s innate vitality and presence was extraordinarily rare. He had called in favor after favor to get her recommended for the troupe.

Once she was in the unit things improved somewhat — her father and brother no longer dared to come and grab her. But every so often her brother would still show up wanting money. During that time, Lin Luxiao’s mother had quietly given her quite a lot behind the scenes. When Nan Yueru found out, she had given her a thorough tongue-lashing — bringing the woman to tears. Which had left Lin Qingyuan feeling, for quite some time afterward, as though he’d rather pick Nan Yueru up and give her a good thrashing.

The man’s promise that night had genuinely moved her. She had almost cried.

She asked him how long it would take for him to make something of himself.

He took a drag on his cigarette and said: “Soon — news will come soon. When it does, I’ll come and find you at the troupe.”

Nan Yueru had gone back to her unit happy, and waited, and waited.

Half a year passed. The man finally came to find her — but what he said was: wait a little longer. Something unexpected had come up on his end.

Only after she pressed him repeatedly did she learn what the unexpected thing was: the slot that had been set aside for him to leave the unit had, in the end, been given to Lin Qingyuan.

Even now, bringing this up, Lin Qingyuan knew he couldn’t clear his conscience. At the time, his wife’s father had given him only six months to prove himself. When his brother finally decided to give him the slot, he said: your situation is urgent — let me help you first.

And Lin Qingyuan had had no idea at the time that his brother was involved with Nan Yueru. If he had known what would happen as a result, he would never have taken that slot.

That was the debt he owed.

When Nan Yueru found out, she broke down on the spot and raged. When she had finally exhausted herself, she asked bitterly: “When it comes to soldiers — isn’t the order always this? First the nation, second your brothers, third your parents, fourth your wife?”

The man gave a pained smile. He said nothing else — only tried to coax her into waiting a little longer.

She waited another half year. Then Nan Yueru, who had made herself too visible, was targeted and framed — expelled from the troupe. It was Lin Luxiao’s mother who pulled strings and called in favors to preserve her military registration, though she had to leave the troupe as an ordinary enlisted soldier.

Disheartened, Nan Yueru returned to school — and it happened that just then, a major historical drama production was auditioning at her school.

With her beautiful looks and a pair of extraordinarily expressive eyes, she immediately caught the director’s attention. A misfortune turned into a blessing.

Another two years passed. The man left the unit. The debt had been paid off. But he no longer brought up marriage — because he disapproved of her profession.

Though they shared a bed every night, their hearts had grown apart. One evening after being intimate, it was Nan Yueru who finally raised the subject of ending things.

The man was silent.

In the end, he said flatly: “Fine.”

That same night, Nan Yueru rolled up her things and left his home. She stood at a street corner with her luggage, hatred taking root. However much she had loved this man, she hated him with equal measure now — hated him enough to want to take a cleaver back there and cut him to pieces.

That same year, at twenty-six, Nan Yueru discovered she was pregnant with Nan Chu.

Actually, there had been a pregnancy before that one. The fetus had been in an unstable position, and she had filmed several night scenes in the rain and cold. That night she had developed a high fever, gone straight to hospital, and when she came around, the child was gone.

She hadn’t told him. It was already gone — what good would telling him do? It couldn’t be undone. All it would add was one more person to share the grief.

The day she found out she was pregnant again, she went straight to the hospital and waited for the procedure.

The surgeon had known her for over a decade. He gave her a day — let her sit on the hospital bed and think about whether she wanted to keep this child.

The year Nan Chu was born, Nan Yueru suffered postpartum depression and developed bipolar disorder. She smoked through pack after pack all day in the hospital room, and the smallest thing could set her off into a rage. She was eventually sent abroad for treatment.

Before Nan Chu was old enough to understand anything, she had barely seen her mother.

From the moment Nan Chu was born, Nan Yueru had regretted it. Nan Chu looked too much like that man — and as she grew older, those eyes were virtually identical. There were moments when Nan Yueru wanted to gouge them out. Once she had actually pressed down on Nan Chu’s eyes accidentally — the child had screamed and cried — and from then on Nan Chu had been deeply wary of anything to do with her mother. She was frightened just by the sight of her.

Nan Yueru didn’t care.

Because her illness was growing worse. She was increasingly volatile, igniting at any spark. Her psychiatric treatments had long since worn out her patience. There were times when she considered simply strangling Nan Chu and throwing herself from a building.

When she learned that the man had died in the line of duty.

Nan Yueru collapsed completely. She very nearly did jump from a building. Her manager had people nail the windows shut and took her abroad to keep her contained.

When Nan Chu was six years old, Lin Qingyuan came to find her, carrying a letter.

In their words, it was something he had left behind — a final letter.

Nan Yueru found it laughable. She stared at that letter and laughed for a long time — a laugh full of despair and futile sorrow, without a single tear.

She tore it apart on the spot. Shredded it to dust. And screamed: “Get out!”

That letter — which she had never managed to read.

Today, Lin Qingyuan had brought it again. Creased and crumpled into a ball, he took it from his pocket and smoothed it flat. “I glued it back together. Had it in a drawer all this time. Decided I should bring it.”

Lin Qingyuan gave a quiet cough. “If you won’t read it, I’ll read it aloud for you.”

Nan Yueru snatched it away without ceremony. “Get out.”

Lin Qingyuan said: “He went quickly — no suffering. After you two parted, he never sought anyone else. His father told me: your mouth was bad, but your heart never was.”

Nan Yueru: “Shut up!”

Lin Qingyuan nodded. “Alright. We’re going. Take your time. If you need to cry — cry. Don’t hold it in. At our age, holding things in causes problems.”

He glanced at Lin Luxiao and gestured toward the door.

Nan Yueru suddenly called out after him: “How is she?”

Lin Qingyuan didn’t turn around. His voice was unhurried. “Gone. Ten years ago, or nine — my memory isn’t what it was. I called you. Your assistant said you were abroad on holiday. So no one followed up.”

Nan Yueru gave a short laugh. “Neither of you are any good.”

Lin Qingyuan nodded at her back. “Fortunately, my son didn’t take after me. He took after his mother. Luxiao — let’s go.”

Lin Luxiao gave Nan Yueru a small bow and followed.

Leaving her standing there, stunned, alone.

…

Outside, the rain had grown heavier, driven by a slanting wind, weaving a glowing net under the amber streetlights.

The two of them reached the entrance. Secretary Zhang came forward and helped Lin Qingyuan into the car. Lin Qingyuan didn’t say much more — just waved Lin Luxiao off. “Go on back. I’ve spoken with your Uncle Meng — when you return from Lushan you report directly to the brigade here in the city.”

Lin Luxiao gave a measured nod. “Yeah.”

The car started and disappeared into the curtain of rain. Lin Luxiao stood there for a while, then pulled up the hood of his fleece jacket and went to get his own car.

He got in, didn’t rush to leave. He leaned against the driver’s seat and looked out at the restaurant window. The light was still on inside. The woman at the table hadn’t left.

Lin Luxiao lowered his window. A slanting wind drove the rain against the sill. He bent down and lit a cigarette in the cupped flame, then leaned his head back against the seat, tossed the lighter into the storage compartment.

His gaze settled on the figure in the window.

He narrowed his eyes, exhaled a slow breath of smoke, and kept watching.

After a while, Lin Luxiao reached into his pocket for his phone. He scrolled for a moment and stopped on Nan Chu’s name.

This contact name had been changed many times.

At first it had been “little brat.” Then “irritating thing.” Then “little girl.” After they separated he had deleted her number for a time — then re-saved it in Lushan as “wretched girl.” And just a few days ago, after they’d gotten their certificate, he’d finally changed it to the proper, straightforward Nan Chu. They’d both felt slightly awkward about that.

She picked up immediately. A bright, clear voice: “Husband.”

Lin Luxiao felt a warmth run through him. “Yeah. Have you eaten?”

Nan Chu was in the middle of eating — her voice was muffled, mouth clearly full. She was still making sure to talk to him. “Just woke up from a nap. Just eating now.”

“You’re eating it cold?” He frowned.

Nan Chu: “Heated it up. You’re still not back?”

Lin Luxiao had his hand resting on the window sill, posture slightly languid, his gaze still on the restaurant window. Inside — the woman had suddenly buried her face in her hands and was weeping brokenly. He narrowed his eyes, started the car.

“Coming back now.”

Nan Chu said sweetly: “Yeah. I’ll wait for you.”

The car started and pulled away.

On the way, he passed a flower shop. Lin Luxiao stopped the car and went in. The young woman working there looked up at the tall, handsome man in the fleece jacket and greeted him warmly: “Looking for flowers?”

Lin Luxiao murmured assent, browsed for a while, and finally spotted a familiar flower in one corner — one Nan Chu had pointed out to him that afternoon. He raised his hand. “What’s that one?”

The woman smiled. “That’s forget-me-not.”

Lin Luxiao raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t it have a flower meaning — some kind of symbolism?”

He didn’t know much about it, but vaguely felt that was a thing.

The shop assistant smiled: “The language of the forget-me-not is eternal love.”

…

Inside the restaurant, Nan Yueru had her face buried against the table, weeping brokenly. Her arms pressed down over the paper as she held it, and the scalding tears fell without stopping, blurring and spreading across those thin pages.

The handwriting on the paper was strong and bold.

“You always asked me why I joined the military. I said it was to protect the nation — you believed that. I said it was to protect you — you didn’t. Between us, it always came back to this: we were never quite in sync. You resented me. You hated me. You always felt I put other things before you. The nation — that I cannot abandon; it is a man’s loyalty, written in blood. But you — I never intended to abandon you either; that is a man’s tenderness. Looking back now, perhaps it was for the best. With you gone from my side, I could give myself more completely, without reservation, to this nation, to its people, to all of you.

I had my resentments too. I resented that you chose fame and fortune over belonging with me. I resented that you refused to give up all that glitter. I disapproved of your profession — yes, I did. And yet — what of it? In the end I made peace with myself about it.

But then — you killed our child.

Did you think I didn’t know? Your test results — I still have them in a drawer. At the time I was furious — furious enough to want to wring your neck. And yet when you faced me, you never said a word about it. You behaved as if nothing had happened. That was what truly broke something in me. The night you said we should end things — I thought it over, and I thought: yes, perhaps it’s better this way. Let us part here.

But this year they asked us to put our final thoughts in writing, and when I thought about it — I found myself writing to you. Most likely this letter will never reach you. If anyone finds it, it would be Qingyuan.

Two years ago I bought a ring. I had plans to propose to you — booked a restaurant, ordered flowers. Then the unit called me back unexpectedly. I saw the disappointment on your face, and I felt guilty. But afterward — you didn’t even notice it yourself — you let out a long breath of relief. You were afraid of my proposing. You didn’t know how you would have answered, did you?

Over the years your ambitions have grown. You are no longer satisfied with what is in front of you. I began to think that even if I had truly proposed, you might not have said yes. So I thought: why add to your burden unnecessarily?

You were angry that I never proposed. But you never once asked yourself: did you truly want to marry me?

About this matter I sought Qingyuan’s counsel many times. He always said to talk it out openly with you. But you grew busier and busier. Every time I called, you were either abroad or on a film set. Getting to see you was harder than getting into the sky.

So be it. This is how it ends. I have no understanding for you. You have no forgiveness for me. Why should we go on tormenting each other? I only want to say this one thing.

If one day you find a husband — learn to soften that temper of yours. Men love gentler women.

Well. Besides me, no one else could put up with your wretched temper anyway.

When you miss me — no. Don’t miss me. I won’t appear before you even if you do — only add to your sorrows. If I can find that old woman by the bridge on the other side, I’ll go beg a bowl of her brew from her, come find you in your dreams at night, and let it wash away everything between us.

I’ll rest easier once I’m gone.

Some things I couldn’t say while I was alive — and I certainly won’t say them dead. So — the thing you wanted to hear: no, I won’t say that. What I will say is only this: take care of yourself. Don’t come and find me too soon.

Otherwise, I won’t acknowledge you.

If there is a next life, I will be a soldier again. And if we happen to meet — you’d better take a different road.”

If Lin Qingyuan had forged this letter, Nan Yueru would never have believed it — every phrase, every sentence carried the exact cadence of that man’s ordinary speech. So this misunderstanding between them would truly have to be settled in the world below.

She sat there, laughing one moment and crying the next, one moment crumpling the paper in her fists — because every line was so utterly deserving of a beating that she wanted to go after him — then smoothing it flat again, feeling that this was him, living and breathing before her. Her fingers traced gently, longingly, across each crease and fold.

She had gone half-mad — crying and laughing, wiping away tears, clutching the last thing of his that remained in this world.

…

When Lin Luxiao arrived home, Nan Chu was kneeling on the floor at the low table, bent over something she was writing. She heard him come in but didn’t look up, kept her head down writing, and said offhandedly: “You’re back.”

He murmured low assent, set down what he was carrying, walked over and pulled her into his arms, bowing his head to kiss her. “What are you writing?”

Nan Chu tucked the papers behind her back, tilted her head up to kiss him back. “I’ll show you next time.”

Lin Luxiao smiled slightly, scooped her up sideways, and when her view suddenly expanded, Nan Chu spotted something new and pointed urgently at the table. “Hey hey hey hey! What’s that?”

Lin Luxiao carried her over and set her down on the table. Nan Chu reached out and picked up the little bouquet of blue flowers. “You bought me flowers?”

Lin Luxiao encircled her against the table’s edge and kissed her slowly. He murmured assent.

Nan Chu was thrilled. “I thought you’d be too proud for that sort of thing.”

Lin Luxiao reached for the buttons of her sleeping clothes, voice low: “I was passing by. Didn’t think I’d ever actually bought you any, so I picked them up.”

Nan Chu hugged the flowers happily to her chest. “I want to open a flower shop — is that alright?”

He gave her a slightly lifted look, then caught her earlobe between his fingers and kneaded it gently — which made Nan Chu’s thoughts scatter immediately. Then she heard him murmur near her ear: “Whatever you like.”

“I also want to hire a floral designer to teach classes in the shop every day.”

“Fine.” His hands kept moving, and he laughed low against her ear and said something.

Nan Chu swatted at him, which only made his movements more deliberate, and soon Nan Chu was letting out low, breathless sounds and finally crying for mercy.

…

The day after Lin Luxiao returned to his unit, Nan Yueru called Nan Chu and told her to bring her ID card and come find her.

Nan Yueru took her directly to the property transfer office. There were people waiting to receive them, and they were taken up to the second floor.

Nan Chu hadn’t quite worked out what was happening yet when the staff set down a pile of forms and documents in front of her. Nan Yueru handed her the property certificate. Nan Chu seemed to start to understand, and reached out to stop her. “Mom — what are you doing?”

Nan Yueru shook her off without expression, voice still cool: “The villa in the western suburbs — I’m transferring it to you. There are also a few equity transfer documents for you to sign afterward.”

“I’ve already bought a place, Mom.”

Nan Yueru looked at her — noticeably calmer than before, not as remote. There was at least warmth now. “You bought a place and now you’re short on money, aren’t you? Can that man’s salary actually support you? Don’t let it get to the point where you’re selling off your handbags.”

Nan Chu had recently been in contact with Yan Dai about quietly processing the bags she had on hand — not really for the money, just because they were sitting there doing nothing. She had always found them slightly out of place at home, and sometimes Lin Luxiao would stand in front of them and gaze at them for a long while.

He didn’t know every brand, but he could recognize a few — and some of those bags genuinely cost several years of his salary. Nan Chu worried he would overthink it, so she had planned to quietly deal with them once he went back to Lushan.

They lived perfectly well without any of those things.

Nan Chu said: “I don’t need any of this. Having him is enough.”

Nan Yueru paused briefly, her tone easing. “I know you don’t need it — keep it as a cushion. I’m going back to America in a few days. Leaving things here serves no purpose. I’ll transfer them to you. Do with them as you please. His family isn’t poor — his father is tight-fisted but has been saving everything for his two sons. Anyway, I’m giving you all of this so no one can look down on you.”

“Mom, why the sudden change of heart?”

The last time they’d met, at the film set, things had been so fierce.

Nan Yueru suddenly fixed her gaze on Nan Chu’s forehead, expression turning thoughtful. “Does it still hurt?”

Nan Chu understood, and shook her head. “It’s healed.”

Nan Yueru gave a nod and said nothing more. Even if she understood things a little better now, words of remorse were something Nan Yueru would never speak aloud.

She would rather transfer every property she owned to Nan Chu than utter a single apology for the years of neglect. That was her stubbornness — and her pride.

To the end, she believed she had done nothing wrong.

That day, she also went to see him. She said: “We were both at fault. You can’t blame me for all of it. I was young then — blinded by fame and ambition. And you only ever resented me, blamed me. You never once thought to pull me out of it.”

She sniffled, a deep, sorrowful feeling rising. “That young man is different. When I’m not there, Nan Chu is completely reliant on him. When she makes mistakes, he guides her to do better. When she leaves, he waits. But you — when I made mistakes, you blamed me for being mercenary. When I said we should end it, you said fine. This path we walked — neither of us is to blame. You were right. Next life: take a different road.”

She said all of this as if arguing with him, then dropped the bundle of white chrysanthemums in her hand and turned to leave.

She had taken two steps when the mountain wind came, carrying with it a faint, wandering fragrance — as if it blew her clear. She straightened, tilted her head back, sniffled, and then turned back to stand before his grave. Fiercely, she said: “Dream on. I’m still going to pester you.”

With those words, a wind rose. Leaves fell in drifting layers. The photograph on the gravestone showed a face of bright, handsome bearing, wearing a gentle smile.

That expression seemed to say — alright.

Golden leaves settled before the headstone.

You wait for me.

…

That same month, Lin Luxiao had just finished training when Nan Chu’s call came through. Before he could even pick up, she was already wailing on the other end — which made his brow leap. “What happened?”

Nan Chu was in the depths of tragedy: “My period came again! I didn’t get pregnant again!”

Lin Luxiao rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a long breath. “No need to rush.”

Nan Chu: “We did it so many times last time and I still didn’t get pregnant — what if I really can’t, ever?!”

Lin Luxiao’s temple throbbed. “You had a checkup — there’s nothing wrong with you.”

Nan Chu suddenly realized something. “No wait — you haven’t been checked!”

Lin Luxiao gave the corner of his mouth a slight, dangerous pull. “And what exactly are you implying?”

Hearing that cool, ominous tone, Nan Chu shrank. She quickly said: “Husband — I’m not saying anything is wrong with you. I’m just saying, it might be best if we both get checked.”

Lin Luxiao laughed coldly. “Sounds like you’ve got too much free time.”

Nan Chu, afraid he might actually be angry, called him “husband” several times in quick succession to placate him. “Next time you come back, can we go together? Please?”

Even when Lin Luxiao wanted to stay annoyed, one look at her the moment he stepped off the train — soft and warm, flinging herself into his arms — was like a bucket of cold water over his head. His irritation went limp instantly. He couldn’t help pulling her in.

And then, through a combination of coaxing and scheming, she somehow managed to drag him to a hospital for a complete fertility examination.

Lin Luxiao sat in the doctor’s office with a face like a stormcloud. Nan Chu was craning forward curiously to see the test results in the doctor’s hands, including several ultrasound images. Though she had seen things up close in their private moments more times than she could count, seeing it all laid out in an ultrasound and held in a doctor’s hands made Nan Chu feel inexplicably embarrassed the longer she looked.

“Well?” Nan Chu glanced at Lin Luxiao, then asked the doctor.

The doctor flipped through everything, pushed up her glasses. “All excellent. Your husband is completely fine. You’re both fine. Don’t be in such a hurry — pregnancy also depends on timing. And you’re still so young. A few more years is nothing to worry about.”

Nan Chu hesitated. “But my husband is getting on in years.”

The doctor glanced at the rather handsome man beside her. “Not at all.”

Nan Chu: “I heard that once a man’s past thirty, the quality goes down.”

The doctor rolled her eyes. “Don’t push it. Children born to men at thirty-five can still be perfectly bright and healthy — it really depends on the individual.”

Lin Luxiao sat in his chair with a cold, flat smile.

Out of the hospital entrance, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. “Past thirty — quality goes down — not satisfied with my performance lately?”

Every grievance was converted into diligent effort that night, on and on and on.

…

Six months later, Lin Luxiao’s official transfer orders arrived. He was formally discharged on December 31st and was to report to the First Brigade in the western suburbs of Beixun on January 1st.

And December 30th was the annual Golden Emperor Film Festival Awards Ceremony.

Nan Chu had become widely known through the character of Liu Yingying in the period drama “The Storm of the Capital,” and she attended as a nominated guest at the Golden Emperor Film Festival.

That evening the press and media had surrounded the red carpet in a solid ring. In a relentless barrage of flashbulbs, Nan Chu was shepherded into the venue by her manager and assistant. Outside, there were even fans for her — holding glowing signs, calling her name at the top of their voices.

“Nan Chu! Nan Chu!”

Backstage, waiting, she spotted Yan Dai — eating a piece of bread with a look of supreme reluctance. When she saw Nan Chu, she called out: “You finally showed up.”

Nan Chu laughed softly. “What’s the matter?”

Yan Dai rolled her eyes and tilted her chin toward the other side. Nan Chu looked over and saw a tall actress standing there — apparently someone new. Nan Chu didn’t immediately understand and smiled. “Come on — we’re old veterans now. No need to bother with these young newcomers.”

Yan Dai gave a huff. “That woman has had herself done up to look exactly like you. Even her clothes — she copies everything. I caught her back just now and thought it was you. Went over to say hello, she turned around, and I got the fright of my life. Her face is completely stiff. Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Nan Chu had barely been taking on any roles lately. She paid little attention to what was going on in the industry — she’d been putting her heart and soul into her flower shop.

People come and go in this world. So many people. How many do you really remember?

She had been attacked at first, vilified. Back then she could barely have imagined: now, someone was altering their face to look like her?

She found the whole thing rather amusing.

So backstage while waiting, she idly searched the actress on her phone, downloaded a photo, put it next to one of her own, and sent it to Lin Luxiao: “Husband, which one is me?”

The unit had no training that evening, and the soldiers had gathered in a circle on the grass to hold a farewell gathering for him.

Lin Luxiao sat on the grass, knees drawn up, hands resting on them, listening attentively to a new recruit reading something aloud. His phone in his pocket buzzed. He took it out, looked — and recognized her immediately.

“Left one.”

Nan Chu: “Impressive.”

It really wasn’t obvious if you looked closely — but the photo had been retouched and softened and from one angled side-view they were nearly identical. Even she had to look twice. She hadn’t thought he’d spot her at once.

Lin Luxiao knew her too well. And his woman — he would never mistake her.

They chatted a little more. Nan Chu said: “You have your gathering — pay attention. I have to go in. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

…

About half an hour later.

Lin Luxiao’s phone buzzed again. He pulled it out and looked — this time it was a short video from Yan Dai.

He opened it.

It appeared to be filmed at the awards ceremony venue. On the large screen, film clips of several nominated performers flashed by in quick succession, and almost in passing — the last one was Nan Chu’s scenes from “The Storm of the Capital.”

He had watched half that film and not finished it.

He had to admit — his wife in a qipao was devastatingly captivating.

“The thirty-eighth Golden Emperor Best Actress award goes to —” The presenter was Cao Ting, a celebrated artist of the screen and winner of the twenty-eighth Golden Emperor Award herself. Her gaze swept over the audience with gentle warmth, then settled on Nan Chu — and her voice lifted: “Nan Chu —!”

Thunderous applause.

Wave after wave of screaming swept the hall. The screens outside transmitted the live broadcast and the energy spread, and the fans outside erupted in cheers. The sight of it was genuinely breathtaking.

Lin Luxiao watched, intent.

Nan Chu rose and embraced the people around her one by one.

The twenty-one-year-old made her way slowly to the stage, trailing the sweep of a red fishtail gown. The stage lights gleamed off the pale skin of her back, where the dress opened in a narrow slit, revealing the deep line of her spine.

The hem of the gown drifted behind her. Standing on that stage, the scene was something beyond description.

The strands of hair at her temples lifted in the faint air of the room.

Nan Chu received the trophy, turned, and stood before the microphone. She bowed slightly, smiling with open generosity, teeth bright white, a small dimple at the corner of her mouth. In that moment her eyes were brighter than moonlight, catching the light like water.

“Thank you.” Her voice was clear.

The whole hall held its breath.

She smiled, and then she stopped. “If I told you right now that I’m already married — would you be surprised?”

The hall erupted. The MC and guest presenters clapped their hands over their mouths in shock, and the audience below exploded.

She bowed her head with a small smile. “Yes. I’m already married.”

The fans screamed.

Nan Chu smiled, composed and unhurried. “I wasn’t expecting this award. I thought I was just here to go through the motions. Yan Dai should know — I haven’t been taking on roles lately. I was actually planning to hold a press conference in the next few days to announce my retirement. My team is also in the process of dissolving. I didn’t expect tonight to catch me so off-guard. So — I might as well use this opportunity to say it now: I still love performing. It’s just that I’ve found something I love even more.”

It was like a bombshell had gone off. Every journalist and media figure inside and outside the hall stirred with excitement — they had stumbled onto major breaking news.

Nan Chu kept smiling, entirely composed. She was so calm.

So calm that people almost thought it was a joke — without knowing that she had written these words out a thousand times on paper, waiting for the day she could say them publicly.

“Actually, our relationship was made public once before. At the time people attacked him — they called his branch of the military the worst in service, and they transferred the malice they had for me onto him and his father. I didn’t dare speak up then. I’m not good at expressing myself — the more I said, the worse it got, the more people found to hold against me. I chose silence and waited for the storm to pass.”

She smiled and continued: “His father was so upset he ended up hospitalized. I was truly frightened — what if something happened because of me? How would I ever face him after that? Cowardly as I was, I ran. I went to study in America. For six months I didn’t dare say a word in public. I went out wearing a mask and a hat so no one would recognize me. Every time I saw that phrase — ‘the worst branch of service’ — it was like a knife lodged in my heart.”

“I was once on a program — for reasons I don’t know, the program was never broadcast. I heard the investors had it pulled. It was a firefighting program. If you have a chance, I think it would be worth learning about. No branch of military service is ‘the worst.’ They are all Chinese servicemen and women. All of them work quietly, building and protecting. All of them make sacrifices. All of them do it for us. I’m not saying any of this to demand an apology from anyone. I only hope that in the future, people on the internet will take a little more responsibility for what they say, and bring a little less violence.”

At this.

The hall broke into thunderous applause.

Lin Luxiao held his phone, his head bowing lower and lower, eyes warming at the rims. He tilted his head back, trying hard to hold it in. Zhao Guo beside him, thinking the atmosphere had simply moved him, gave his shoulder a consoling squeeze.

Lin Luxiao looked down again. On the screen, the young woman in the long red fishtail gown was smiling, eyes bright, teeth white.

“This — for my husband.” She said: “You go and defend the nation. I’ll be here defending you.”

Even the audience below was moved to tears.

Lin Luxiao gave a slow, spreading smile — and then he felt something cool on his face. He reached up and brushed it away. He didn’t make much of it, wiped it once, closed the video.

The night sky was high and deep overhead, the stars a dazzling blur.

They had found each other in the finest years of their lives, and found each other again at exactly the right time.

Perhaps they had been lost — but somehow they never truly diverged.

Through a thousand miles, ten thousand miles, through cloud and through mist — everywhere I looked, it was you.

Through layers of cloud, past that curtain of fire — the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

My life’s greatest glory is you.