Meng Fuyuan gripped her wrist very firmly, with no intention of letting go.

His gaze was the same—as if he had to watch her safely reach the ground.

Chen Qingwu had no choice but to let him hold her hand as she climbed down the ladder.

The instant her feet touched the ground, Meng Fuyuan gently pulled her to the side. “Careful.”

She looked down to see glass shards all over the floor and moved aside slightly.

Her wrist lightened—Meng Fuyuan had released his grip.

Chen Qingwu said nothing and simply turned to fetch a broom and dustpan from the tool area to clean up.

“Let me.” Meng Fuyuan reached out. “You go help look for what Teacher Qian needs.”

Chen Qingwu paused and handed him the cleaning tools.

Having been out all day, she hadn’t had time to search for it.

All the things Teacher Qian had left behind were piled together. It took some effort before she found that blue-glazed plate.

Plate in hand, Chen Qingwu returned to the outer room.

The glass shards had already been swept into a black garbage bag. Meng Fuyuan was crouched on one leg on the floor, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, holding a roll of yellow warning tape he’d presumably found on the tool rack, carefully pressing it against the floor to pick up any remaining glass fibers.

Once when she was small, during a visit to the Meng house, Qiran had insisted on roughhousing with her. The two had knocked over a white porcelain plate on the table. Not daring to make a fuss, they’d huffed and puffed secretly cleaning up, but her finger had been cut by a shard—just a small nick.

Meng Fuyuan, coming downstairs to the dining room for water, happened to see this. With a stern face, he’d scolded Meng Qiran a couple of times, then told them to stand aside and not make things worse.

He’d swept up the shards and found a roll of transparent tape, then like this, carefully pressed it across the floor.

Finally, he’d pressed down with his palm to confirm not a single fragment remained before he was satisfied.

Now, Meng Fuyuan was doing the same thing—cutting off the tape that had picked up glass fibers, tossing it in the garbage bag, and tying it shut.

“Do you have a marker?” Meng Fuyuan asked.

Chen Qingwu went to the work table to fetch a permanent marker.

Meng Fuyuan took it, cut another piece of warning tape to stick on the bag, uncapped the marker, and wrote on the tape’s surface: Caution: Glass.

This warning was clearly for the sanitation workers who’d collect the trash.

Chen Qingwu often marveled at his attentiveness and civic-mindedness.

“Where do you throw the garbage?” Meng Fuyuan asked.

“Oh… by the door is fine. I’ll take it all out in the morning.”

Meng Fuyuan carried the garbage bag to the entrance. Chen Qingwu returned the cleaning tools to their place.

At this moment she was immensely grateful Meng Fuyuan had come—these trivial matters diverted her attention, sparing her from having to immediately process those surging, painful emotions.

After a moment, Meng Fuyuan walked over. After surveying the room, he headed toward the sink.

Chen Qingwu picked up the dusty plate and also walked over.

Meng Fuyuan turned on the faucet. As he put his hands under the running water, he glanced to the side.

Chen Qingwu stood obediently to his side and slightly behind, as if queuing.

After washing his hands, he shifted aside.

Chen Qingwu stepped forward, washing her hands while rinsing that blue-glazed plate.

Meng Fuyuan stood to the side without leaving. His palm pressed lightly against the edge of the stone countertop. He lowered his head to look at Chen Qingwu, silently observing for a moment before asking in an even tone: “Did you fight with Qiran?”

“…We basically never fight.” Chen Qingwu seemed to come back to herself and answered softly.

This phrase again.

“Then why did you break the gift Qiran gave you?” The glass wind chimes, with their exquisite and gorgeous painted design, were in the same style as those glass cups on the display shelf. Except for something from Qiran, there was no other explanation.

“I didn’t want it anymore.” Chen Qingwu’s tone grew even softer.

She lowered her eyes slightly, as if concentrating on washing that plate, her voice muffled through the sound of running water.

She clearly wasn’t crying, yet somehow that emotion felt more sodden than if she had cried.

Meng Fuyuan felt helpless. He had neither the standing nor the identity to inquire further or offer comfort.

Especially since he suspected—were the two of them breaking up?

Young people’s love was always like this, breaking up and getting back together.

After a moment, he said carefully: “My position is absolutely neutral, Qingwu. You can completely trust me.”

Chen Qingwu’s movement paused. She then turned off the faucet, gripped the plate and shook it lightly, draining the water.

She set the plate aside, pulled out a paper towel, and began speaking softly: “Do you remember, the summer I was nine…”

“I remember.” Meng Fuyuan looked at her, his gaze behind the lenses extremely deep.

Of course he remembered.

That summer, both families were vacationing in the mountains.

That afternoon, Meng Fuyuan, who’d been reading in his room, was required by his parents to take her and his younger brother Meng Qiran to the forest park.

Chen Qingwu had caught a butterfly and released it when leaving.

On the way to the parking lot, she kept turning back to look, extremely reluctant.

Before getting in the car, she turned back one last time and asked him: Brother Yuan, is there no winter in the butterfly’s world?

He especially remembered that dusk was as thin as cicada wings, and Chen Qingwu’s tone was extraordinarily melancholic.

She was a precocious child, and having grown up steeped in medicine due to childhood illness, she perceived suffering early and had an especially sensitive disposition.

Such children were prone to unhappiness.

Mother Chen, Liao Shuman, had also said privately that when she was young and afflicted with literary pretensions, the name she’d given her daughter was too “thin”—perhaps it had indirectly affected her fate as well.

A mist of sorrow—not a particularly auspicious image.

At that time, Qingwu was probably just afraid that those beautiful butterflies would disappear after summer ended.

But this spontaneous utterance later increasingly seemed to become a prophecy, especially after another incident occurred shortly after that day.

At the time, Chen Qingwu’s health was fragile. Her parents didn’t let her run around—going to the forest park was already an exceptional privilege.

But Meng Qiran couldn’t sit still. Within two days of arriving in the mountains, he’d already explored all the surrounding areas.

That noon, the weather was oppressively hot. Qingwu couldn’t stand staying in the room and secretly asked Qiran to take her out to play.

Qiran rode his bike, carrying her down the mountain.

At the foot of the mountain by the schoolhouse was a basketball court. Local kids were playing basketball there. Naturally Qiran couldn’t resist joining them.

Qingwu sat on the sidelines watching. Though she couldn’t participate herself, seeing Qiran make baskets made her feel honored by association.

When the game ended, everyone was drenched in sweat. One kid said there was a small stream nearby where they could play in the water—very refreshing.

Stream tracing required climbing the mountain. Qingwu definitely couldn’t follow.

So Qiran had her wait at the small store, saying he’d play for a bit then come get her.

And so she waited—until dark.

When it came to being genuinely earnest, no one could compare to Chen Qingwu. It never occurred to her that Qiran, playing to his heart’s content, had completely forgotten her existence.

Later, the store owner noticed it was getting dark and that Qingwu kept sitting on the front steps, so he asked with extra concern whether she was waiting for a parent to pick her up.

Only then did she give Meng Fuyuan’s phone number—she vaguely sensed this matter couldn’t be told to the parents, or Qiran would get scolded.

After receiving the call, Meng Fuyuan rode his bike down the mountain to fetch her.

She sat on his back seat, clutching the hem of his white T-shirt, asking sullenly: “Brother Yuan, has Qiran already gone back?”

Meng Fuyuan didn’t lie. “Mm.”

“Oh.”

When they returned to the villa in the mountains, both sets of parents happened to be leaving to go down the mountain to search for Qingwu, who hadn’t yet come home.

The matter couldn’t be concealed. Father Meng, Meng Chengyong, berated Qiran: “If your little sister had gotten lost you’d be in big trouble today, Meng Qiran! If you take someone out, you have to be responsible for her!”

How could a nine-year-old boy possibly submit meekly to discipline? Annoyed to death, he retorted: “She’s not even my real sister, and I’m only a week older than her—why do I have to be responsible for everything! I’m not the one who made her get sick!”

Meng Chengyong was so angry he was about to hit him. Chen Suiliang quickly intervened, persuading him all the while that verbal education would do—hitting was absolutely unacceptable.

Later Meng Chengyong confined Qiran to his room for a solid week.

The day the confinement ended, Qiran went out to ride his bike.

Qingwu followed, wanting to apologize.

But Qiran, presumably thinking Qingwu still wanted to go out with him, braked with both feet on the ground, turned his head and said coldly: “Don’t follow me! If anything else happens I can’t take responsibility!”

Chen Qingwu froze on the spot.

At that time Meng Fuyuan was watching a movie in his second-floor room. Hearing the sound, he opened the window and saw Chen Qingwu standing there, watching as Qiran turned a corner ahead and disappeared among the swaying tree shadows.

Under the vicious sun, that figure stood all alone. Meng Fuyuan frowned, braced his arms on the windowsill, leaned out and called: “Qingwu.”

She turned to look up, her small face pale.

“Come inside. It’s hot out there—don’t get heatstroke.”

He went downstairs. Chen Qingwu was just coming in, beads of sweat covering her pale face.

He went to the kitchen to get the remaining half watermelon, cut it up and served it on a plate.

Qingwu sat on the sofa, eating the watermelon in small bites.

She said nothing, as if that scene just now hadn’t happened, and she hadn’t suffered any pain.

Just like now.

That expression was so calm, as if the person who’d resolutely shattered the glass wind chimes wasn’t her.

Even after hearing him say “I remember,” she laughed lightly. “…Sometimes I really envy Qiran. A life without having to bear any responsibility must be very happy.”

Meng Fuyuan said instinctively: “He has to take responsibility for you.”

“Not anymore from now on.”

Meng Fuyuan was slightly surprised. “…Did Qiran say something?”

“No. He didn’t say anything.”

Didn’t do anything either.

Precisely because he didn’t do anything.

He didn’t dare kiss her because he was unwilling to take responsibility.

Unwilling to willingly bow his neck and surrender part of his freedom, to have to account for his whereabouts from then on, to walk the path preset by the parents.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand Meng Qiran’s psychology. His casual indifference was silent resistance to being bound by responsibility.

It was just that she’d naively believed before that even if he was a gust of wind, when tired of flying there would be that moment when he’d settle in the valley.

Meng Qiran at twenty-five couldn’t settle down—but what about five years from now? Ten years from now?

She could wait.

Only, she’d overestimated herself.

Her self-respect could no longer allow her to deceive herself.

He wouldn’t even kiss her.

Meng Fuyuan looked at Chen Qingwu, trying to judge her current emotional state.

He rarely truly inquired into matters between Qiran and Qingwu—it went against his principles of conduct, and he didn’t dare think so highly of himself as to naively believe that knowing the details of their relationship, he could still maintain a heart like still water.

“If Qiran made any mistakes, you don’t need to tolerate him. If you need it, I can also mediate for you two.”

Chen Qingwu shook her head and smiled: “No need. It’s already fine.”

The water on the plate had been wiped dry. She tossed the used paper towel in the trash.

A cigarette pack sat on the counter. She picked it up casually.

Shaking it lightly, she extracted one and lowered her head to hold it between her lips.

Remembering the lighter was over by the sofa, she was about to turn around when Meng Fuyuan raised his left hand.

Between his fingers was a silver lighter.

He flipped open the cover, lightly struck the wheel, and a small flame leaped up, moving toward her.

Chen Qingwu paused and raised her eyes.

Meng Fuyuan was looking down at her, his gaze filtered through the lenses, utterly calm.

So she lowered her eyes and leaned toward the lighter.

Meng Fuyuan watched Chen Qingwu with slightly downcast eyes. The firelight cast a faint warmth on her pale face.

That thread of flame seemed to use the emotion in his heart as fuel, burning silently to ash, unknown to anyone.

After the cigarette was lit, Chen Qingwu’s head drew back.

With a “click,” the lighter cover closed.

As Meng Fuyuan withdrew his hand, Chen Qingwu glanced over and only then noticed what she’d never paid attention to before—he wore a pinky ring on his left hand.

Silver, simple and understated in design.

She didn’t ask more, just quietly smoked with lowered eyes.

It was quite incredible—this was something absolutely impossible to do in front of both families’ parents or Meng Qiran.

She could sense Meng Fuyuan’s gaze resting on her, but he said nothing.

Just as he’d said, he was absolutely neutral.

No coercion, no interference, no judgment.

And it was precisely this genuine tolerance that suddenly made grievance well up within her.

She abruptly turned and walked toward the window.

Hearing footsteps following behind, she said hoarsely: “…Don’t come over.”

The footsteps stopped.

She halted by the window, her forehead pressed against the glass.

Tears could no longer be held back.

As a child, confined between hospital rooms—white sheets, bitter pills, disinfectant, IV bottles… cyclical fear and dejection.

Like an endless winter.

Therefore, she always wanted to see the butterfly’s world.

It must be free and splendidly varied.

But she’d forgotten—there is no winter in the butterfly’s world.

She didn’t smoke the cigarette, just held it between her fingers, burning silently.

Footsteps suddenly sounded again from behind.

Chen Qingwu came to her senses, just preparing to turn her head when a hand reached over, snatched the slender cigarette from her fingers, and stubbed it out on the windowsill in two motions.

Then grabbed her arm and pulled her straight back.

A crisp, cold fragrance rushed into her nostrils. She realized her forehead had just collided with Meng Fuyuan’s chest.

Her heart startled, but Meng Fuyuan raised his hand and patted her back, as if purely comforting her like an older brother.

She stopped moving at once, strength draining away, tears surging out uncontrollably.

Like returning to that summer, under the vicious sun, watching Meng Qiran’s retreating figure, tears evaporating as soon as they emerged.

In the end, tear stains and sweat stains sticky and smeared across her face, impossible to distinguish anymore.

This was the last time in her life she’d cry for Meng Qiran.

Meng Fuyuan’s palm rested on Chen Qingwu’s shoulder blade, clearly feeling her body’s fine, uncontrollable trembling.

Having convinced himself ten thousand times this wasn’t appropriate, he still couldn’t stand by and watch her suffer with indifference.

Tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt at his chest, scalding his heart.

He had to exercise extreme restraint to prevent instinct from taking precedence, from reaching out to embrace her, letting his position become compromised, betraying Qiran.

Just like that summer, carrying her home on his bike through the dusky mountain road, hearing her say “oh” with such disappointment, he’d only opened his mouth without making a sound, swallowing back useless comfort.

Between Qiran and Qingwu, he was nothing.