Chapter 1

The day my grandmother passed away, it was my ex-boyfriend, Caleb, who came to prepare her for the funeral.

I stood at the far end of the hallway, watching his focused, familiar profile.

In my pocket, the gastric cancer diagnosis was folded into thirds, its sharp edges digging into my fingertips.

I sought out the funeral home director, asking if I could personally request the mortician for my own inevitable final service.

As I signed my name on the contract, I couldn't help but wonder:

If it were Caleb preparing my body for that final rest,

would he, for the sake of what we once shared, be just a little more careful, a little more gentle than he would be with a stranger?

...

After signing the paperwork, I didn't leave immediately. I sat for a long time on the plastic chair in the hallway.

When Caleb emerged from the farewell parlor, he had his dark blue work uniform draped over his arm, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a glimpse of his sturdy, well-defined forearms.

He caught sight of me and paused, then walked over, taking a seat one chair away.

"My condolences."

The way he spoke those two words was no different from how he might speak to anyone else.

It was professional, detached, and restrained—much like the service guidelines posted on the funeral home wall.

I nodded in silence.

My hand instinctively pressed against the pocket of my coat, the edge of the diagnosis digging into my skin again.

It felt like a tiny, embedded splinter—not lethal, but a constant reminder of the pain.

"You've lost a lot of weight," he said suddenly. His gaze lingered on my face for about two seconds before shifting away.

A pang of bitterness welled up inside me. I nearly blurted out, "Caleb, I’ve lost eleven pounds because I’m dying."

But I said nothing. I only offered a faint smile. "Work's been busy."

We hadn't seen each other in years.

It wasn't exactly a lifetime—just over two thousand days and nights—but it was just long enough for a girl’s dreams to be shattered and painstakingly stitched back together.

And, as it turned out, just long enough for cancer to take root in my body.

Back then, when I was determined to head to the city, he had sat on the balcony of our tiny rented apartment, smoking through the entire night in silence. The next morning, his eyes red-rimmed, he had said, "I won't stop you. But if you leave, don't ever look back."

I was so proud then. I had dragged my suitcase away without a backward glance, thinking that once I made something of myself, he would understand.

And I hadn't looked back.

The office cubicles in the city were freezing, the takeout was expensive, and I couldn't even count how many times I’d worked myself into a gastric spasm.

Every time the pain flared, I would remember the millet porridge he used to make for me—thick, steaming hot, with two spoonfuls of brown sugar added because he said it was good for my stomach.

I never thought that, in the end, my stomach would fail me anyway.

When I regained my composure, Caleb had stood up, transforming back into the professional mortician.

"Your grandmother's arrangements are all set. You... when are you heading back?"

In his mind, I would always be the girl destined to leave.

"I'm not leaving anymore," I said softly.

He froze for a fleeting second, then the corners of his mouth twitched—a gesture that was neither a smile nor a mockery, but perhaps a primitive instinct for self-preservation. "Tired of the big city?"

I didn't know how to answer.

I couldn't tell him it was because I’d been diagnosed with terminal gastric cancer last month, and the doctors said I had at most six months.

I couldn't tell him I’d quit my job and given up my apartment just to return to this small town and wait quietly for the end.

"Yeah," I replied, following his lead. "Just tired of it."

He didn't pursue the conversation further. A silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, like the lingering scent of disinfectant in the hallway.

I recalled the days when we used to talk about everything, how he would send me long voice messages late at night, telling me about the oddities he encountered at the funeral home, or the time he was applying makeup to a centenarian and the old woman's granddaughter had fainted in grief.

I used to tease him for turning our dates into work reports, but now, how I longed to hear one more. Even if it were just a work report.

"Take care of yourself."

He finally said only that before turning to leave.

I watched his retreating back, my fingers tightening around the contract in my bag that designated him as my mortician. As I stood up from the chair to leave, passing the tea room near the corner, I heard the voice of the director, Old Zhou, accompanied by a hearty laugh.

"Caleb, I'm being serious. My wife's cousin—twenty-six, works at the bank, a real beauty. Meet her this Saturday, just do it as a favor to me."

A brief silence followed.

Then, I heard Caleb's voice—low, laced with a hint of helpless amusement: "Alright, Zhou, let's meet her."

I leaned against the wall and slowly slid to a crouch.

The fluorescent light in the hallway hummed above me.

I buried my face in my knees, biting down on the back of my hand, refusing to make a sound.

My stomach began to ache again.

But I couldn't tell if it was the cancer cells spreading, or if it was my heart that was hurting.

Chapter 2

After a long while, I propped myself against the wall and slowly stood up.

In the farewell parlor, the light was still shining on my grandmother's portrait. In the photo, she was wearing the dark red sweater I had mailed back to her, her eyes curved into a sweet smile.

"Grandma," I whispered, "he’s going on a blind date with someone else."

The woman in the photo just smiled, saying nothing.

When I walked out of the funeral home, the sky was completely dark. I walked slowly along the side of the road with my back hunched; the stomach pain made my strides very short.

My phone vibrated a few times. It was the owner of the flower shop I had contacted earlier, asking if I wanted to see the shop space tomorrow.

Ruoshui Street, only an eight-minute walk from the funeral home.

The next afternoon, I stood in front of the flower shop.

Then I saw Caleb wearing a gray hoodie, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bowing his head as he spoke to the flower shop owner.

We hadn't seen each other in two years, yet we had met twice in two days.

"Ms. Mina, right?" The flower shop owner greeted me. "This is Caleb, a friend of mine, helping me take inventory. Do you two know each other?"

Caleb and I were both silent.

"We do," he spoke first, his tone as flat as if he were stating a fact. "Ex-girlfriend."

Those three words landed on the ground, making my heart ache dull and heavy.

The flower shop owner chuckled awkwardly and wisely stepped aside.

"You're leasing this shop?" Caleb took two steps closer, his voice lowered. "Mina, you fought so hard in the city for so many years, and you're just giving it all up like this? How much money can a flower shop even make..."

He suddenly cut himself off.

Because my hand was unconsciously pressing against my upper abdomen, my thumb joints turning white from the pressure.

We had been together for three years; he was too familiar with this gesture. Every time my stomach pain flared up, I was in this exact posture.

"Is your stomach hurting again?" His tone changed. That layer of detachment cracked, revealing the long-hidden worry beneath.

I quickly dropped my hand and smiled. "It's nothing, just an old ailment."

He stared at me for five seconds, his eyes filled with something I couldn't read. "Mina, you should go see a doctor."

Bitterness flooded my tongue.

A doctor.

Last month, I sat in the hallway of a major hospital in the city for four hours, waiting for a verdict: gastric cancer, poorly differentiated adenocarcinoma, stage IV. At most, six months.

I smiled, my tone as light as if I were discussing what to have for dinner. "I've seen one. It's nothing serious."

He frowned, not pursuing the matter further.

This was the right his status as an ex-boyfriend gave him: he could care, but he couldn't dig too deep.

I turned to look at the shop space—about thirty-something square meters, with a small loft. Sunlight shone in through the dusty glass windows, hitting an empty flower pot in the corner.

If I raised a pot of jasmine, it should bloom by summer.