The moment the door closed, the light from the hallway leaked through the crack before disappearing.

The hospital room fell back into darkness.

Julian opened his eyes.

He didn't get up; he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

That fine crack was still there, stretching from the light fixture to the corner of the wall; it turned out that when he closed his eyes, the crack was still there.

It turned out that many things do not disappear just because you cannot see them.

Like her grievances.

Like his guilt.

Like the child who never had the chance to be born.

He lay there for a long time, long enough for the sky outside to change from gray-blue to gray-white.

Then he slowly sat up and turned to look at the nightstand.

The ring was still there.

The note was still there.

It was only Clara who had left.

He picked up the note and saw the line—"When I have figured out how to live my own life, if you are still willing then, I will come back."

The handwriting was trembling, with some strokes crooked.

He pressed the note against his chest and closed his eyes.

This was the choice he had given her.

He had put the diamond ring and the ticket by her bedside and let her choose for herself.

She chose the ticket; he should accept it.

He had to accept it.

Julian folded the note and tucked it under his pillow, then picked up the diamond ring and turned it twice on his fingertip.

He took the chain off his neck, threaded the ring onto it, and hung it over his chest.

He lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes once more.

Zhou arrived at nine o'clock.

When he pushed the door open, Julian had already finished washing up and was sitting on the hospital bed eating breakfast.

Porridge, eggs, and side dishes—he ate every last bite.

Zhou stood at the doorway, phone in hand, panting.

"Mr. Julian, Madam booked a flight to Paris. If we go to the airport now, there’s still time. I checked the route, there’s no traffic—"

Julian did not answer him, just continued eating his breakfast.

Zhou looked anxious: "Mr. Julian!"

Julian tightened his grip on his chopsticks and said softly, "Don't go bother her."

Zhou was silent for a moment, then turned and walked out.

Julian turned to look out the window; the sky was gray, like his own heavy, lingering heart.

"Clara," he said softly, "you told me to wait for you, so I will wait, but please, hurry."

He touched the ring on his chest and added:

"Don't make me wait too long."

Chapter 10

On the day Julian was discharged from the hospital, Selina came to pick him up.

She wore an off-white coat with her hair cascading over her shoulders, holding a bouquet of white lilies. Standing at the hospital entrance, the wind blowing through her hair, she drew glances from passing patients and their families.

She was indeed beautiful.

But she was not Clara.

Clara never wore off-white, saying the color made her look fat.

Clara never held lilies, saying their scent was too heavy and gave her a headache.

When Clara came to pick him up, she was always plain-faced, her hair tied in a casual ponytail, carrying a bag from his favorite porridge shop.

"Julian," Selina greeted with a smile, "Auntie asked me to come and pick you up."

Julian glanced at her but didn't reach for the flowers.

"Let’s go."

Selina's smile stiffened for a moment before she quickly put it back on, following him into the car.

The car was very quiet; the driver focused on the road, while Selina sat beside him, her body turned slightly toward him.

"Julian, did Clara go to France?"

"Yes."

"How long for?"

"I don't know."

"Did you guys... run into some trouble?" Her tone was careful, as if afraid of stepping on a landmine. "If there’s anything you need help with, just let me know."

Julian turned to look at her.

His gaze was very calm—so calm it sent a chill down Selina's back.

"Selina, what are you happy about?"

Selina's smile froze completely.

"I'm not..."

"My wife just went to clear her head; she will be back." Julian interrupted her. His voice was low, but each word was like a nail.

"Until then, it’s best if we keep our distance. I don't want any misunderstandings when she returns."

After saying that, he turned his head to look out the window.

Selina sat there, her fingers gripping her handbag strap until her knuckles turned white.

She took three seconds to adjust her expression, managed a smile, said "You're overthinking it, Julian," and then fell silent.

The car arrived at the entrance of the old Julian family estate.

Before Julian even got out of the car, he saw a familiar figure at the entryway.

His mother.

Julian's mother stood by the door, dressed neatly with her hair perfectly combed, like a general waiting for an inspection.

When she saw Selina get out of the car, her eyes lit up; when she saw Julian step out, the corners of her mouth curved up.

"You're back? Come in quickly, Selina. I had the maid prepare some soup."

Julian walked in and sat down on the sofa.

His mother pulled Selina to sit beside him while she sat across from them; the three of them looked like a carefully arranged painting—only, there was one extra person who shouldn't be there, and someone missing who should have been.

"Selina, thanks to your help in contacting the nurse, Julian was able to recover so quickly," his mother said with a smile. "You are more attentive than his own family."

"Auntie, don't say that. Julian's business is my business."

Julian picked up his teacup and took a sip, saying nothing.

His mother glanced at him, her tone shifting: "Clara left? Good riddance."

"I told you long ago she wasn't good enough for you. Look at Selina—good family background, high education, and she cares about you. Isn't she a hundred times better than that Clara?"

The sound of the teacup being set on the table was very light.

Julian looked up at his mother.

"Mom, you’re right."

"Clara really isn't good enough for me."

His mother and Selina were both stunned for a moment.

"She isn't good enough for my coldness, not for my absences, and not for the things you said to her, Mom." His voice was calm, so calm it sounded like he was reading a financial report.

"There are too many things she isn't good enough for—so many that I couldn't pay them back even if I had a lifetime."

The air in the living room seemed to be sucked away.

His mother's expression changed: "What do you mean by that? I—"

"Mom," Julian interrupted, his voice very soft. "Three years ago, when Clara fell down the stairs, were you there?"

His mother's lips began to tremble.

"You don't have to answer. I will find out myself." He stood up and looked at Selina. "Ms. Selina, I won't be having the soup. You can have it with my mother."

He walked up the stairs, his footsteps steady, never looking back.

Behind him came the sound of his mother’s frantic, short breaths and Selina’s forced, steadying reassurances.

He didn't hear a word of it; only one thought occupied his mind—

He had to know how that child three years ago had truly been lost.

Chapter 11

47 Sentier Street, 16th Arrondissement, Paris.

I stood in front of that dark blue door, gripping the brass key in my hand. The key had been warmed by my palm, but I still couldn't bring myself to open the door.

I shouldn't be staying in the house Julian had prepared for me, yet I was afraid that if he couldn't get any news of me, he would be very anxious.

I took a deep breath, inserted the key into the lock, and turned it.

The door opened.

I froze.

The apartment wasn't large—two bedrooms and a living room—with south-facing windows looking out onto a quiet street.

Sunlight squeezed through the gaps in the curtains, painting a golden line across the wooden floor.

On the kitchen counter, there were seasonings—soy sauce, vinegar, cooking wine, salt, sugar, even star anise and cinnamon sticks.

In the refrigerator, there were eggs, milk, vegetables, fruits, and even a box of my favorite strawberries.

I squatted down to check the expiration dates; everything had been bought yesterday.

In the closet, there were clothes in my size.

They weren't randomly bought; they were my usual brands, my favorite colors, and the styles I frequently wore.

I flipped the tags; the production date was last month—he had bought them while I was still in the country, before I had even decided to leave, he was already preparing for me.

In the bathroom, the skincare products were the brand I always used: cleanser, toner, lotion, serum, cream—nothing was missing.