But I might not live until summer.

"I'll take it."

Caleb picked up a pen and bowed his head to start drafting the contract.

I watched his right temple and suddenly noticed two gray hairs hidden there.

So, two years could leave their mark on a twenty-eight-year-old man, too.

He pushed the contract toward me, his fingertips pressing against the edge of the paper without letting go.

"Are you sure?" his voice was very soft. "Really not going back?"

I picked up the pen and wrote my name stroke by stroke: Mina.

It was the name my grandmother chose. She said "Mina, Mina"—to be a little satisfied is enough.

But the greatest mistake of my life was my greed—greed for the neon lights of the city, greed for an invisible future—and in the end, I lost everything.

"I'm not going back." I looked up and smiled. "The city doesn't have plane trees like those on Ruoshui Street." Nor did it have you.

I got up to leave. Just as I walked two steps away, his voice chased after me from behind.

"Mina."

I turned back and saw Caleb standing beside a bucket of chamomile. The hoodie of his sweatshirt was slightly puffed out by the wind, and he was still holding the pen.

He said, "You look terrible."

Before I could reply, he had already returned to that professional, business-like tone, as quickly as turning a page in a book.

"If your stomach isn't good, stay away from cold things. Don't carry buckets of cold water by yourself. Don't die in the shop, or someone else will have to clean up after you."

I clenched my palm and forced a smile at him.

"Don't worry, I won't trouble anyone."

He paused and didn't turn back. "That would be best."

The door closed.

The cool breeze of March blew in. I stood where I was, my hand unconsciously pressing against my coat pocket.

I won't trouble anyone, but Caleb, surely you shouldn't count as "anyone."

Chapter 3

On the third day after the flower shop opened, I received an order for a bouquet of chamomile to be delivered to a tea restaurant on the next street.

As I pushed open the glass door, the wind chime chimed once.

I walked toward the counter while holding the flowers, but as my peripheral vision swept over the booth by the window, my steps faltered.

Caleb was sitting there, and across from him was a girl with a low ponytail, her mouth curving into shallow dimples when she smiled.

I remembered then—it was Saturday.

He was on a blind date.

The girl was saying something; he tilted his head to listen, nodding occasionally, a look of ease on his face that I had never seen before.

He saw me, too.

The moment our eyes met, he picked up the lemonade in front of him and took a sip, then looked away, as if he had just seen a stranger.

I placed the flowers on the counter. "Owner, the chamomile is here."

The young girl at the register asked me to wait a moment and turned to get change.

I stood by the counter, my fingers unconsciously digging into the bouquet's wrapping paper.

There were few people in the tea restaurant, and I soon heard the girl's voice drifting over, carrying just the right amount of curiosity: "Mr. Caleb, are you a mortician? That’s such a unique profession."

"Yes," Caleb’s voice was flat. "Once you get used to it, it doesn't feel like much."

"Are you ever afraid?" The girl lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret. "I’ll tell you, I’m actually a huge coward. I have to cover my eyes even when watching horror movies..."

He chuckled.

It was a very light, very short laugh, but I heard it.

In the past, whenever he told me about the funeral home, I would always shrink into his arms and say I was afraid. He would smile and ruffle my hair, saying, "Don't be afraid. The living are much scarier than the dead."

"Miss, here is your change."

I snapped out of it, took the change, and turned to walk out.

My hands trembled when I pushed the door. The glass door was heavier than I imagined, and it took two firm pushes to open it.

After walking a few steps, I stopped under the plane tree by the roadside and looked back.

The glass window of the tea restaurant was very bright. He was sitting with his back to me, his shoulders slightly turned, pouring tea for the girl across from him.

That was a posture I had seen countless times.

I didn't look anymore and turned to walk back.

The plane trees at the end of March had just sprouted new leaves, and the tender green leaves were blown upside down by the wind, revealing their grayish-white undersides.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Old Zhou at the funeral home: [Ms. Mina, your grandmother's ashes can be moved to the cemetery next Wednesday.]

I replied with a "Okay" and shoved the phone back into my pocket.

It rained lightly on Wednesday.

When I reached the cemetery entrance with my umbrella, Caleb was standing under the eaves of the administrator's office, a black raincoat over his dark blue uniform, holding a folder in his hand.

He handed me a form, his tone business-like and flat: "Sign here."

"Okay."

I signed. The tip of my pen paused on the paper, leaving a tiny ink dot.

He pulled the form back and turned to walk toward the burial area. I followed behind, maintaining a distance of two or three steps.

The rain beat against the umbrella, sounding like a rhythmic patter.

His raincoat hood was blown back by the wind; he reached up to press it down without stopping his pace.

Grandmother’s tombstone was newly engraved, and a bouquet of white chrysanthemums had already been placed in front of it. There were water droplets on the petals, too fresh to be from the day before.

I took one look and guessed it was placed by Caleb.

I placed my own flowers next to the white chrysanthemums and straightened my back. "Thank you."

Caleb didn't respond. He pulled a sealed bag from the inner pocket of his raincoat and handed it over.

Inside the transparent bag, a lock of gray-white hair was tied with a red string, braided into three strands.

"It got stuck in the gap of the urn when moving the grave," he said. "I thought you might want it."

I took it. The color of the red string had aged, fading into a dull, dark ochre.

When she was alive, my grandmother always said not to throw away hair when it fell out, as it could be used to braid peace knots.

This red string was one I had braided before. I had made two—one for my grandmother to tie her hair with, and the other...

My gaze uncontrollably drifted downward, landing on his left wrist.

There was nothing there.

I subconsciously pulled my gaze back, but just happened to meet Caleb’s eyes looking over.

He seemed to have guessed my intent, a careless, mocking smile pulling at the corners of his lips: "I threw away the one you gave me a long time ago."

The sound of the rain suddenly grew louder.

I gripped the sealed bag in my hand tightly, the red string digging into my palm through the plastic.

I had already guessed it; two years later, who would still keep a red string braided by an ex-girlfriend?

But my chest was still slammed hard by something, aching in a dull, heavy way.

"Mhm," I said. "It should have been thrown away."

There was a moment of silence.

Caleb stepped forward to leave. I watched his back and suddenly spoke up.

"Did your blind date... go well that day?"

Chapter 4

As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

The sound of rain hitting the umbrella was as dense as a drumbeat.

Caleb stood on the other side of the tombstone, the brim of his black raincoat pulled very low; I couldn't see his expression.

The silence spread, colder than the rain.

He shifted the folder to his other hand, his movements unhurried. "What does that have to do with you?"

It wasn't an interrogation, nor was it sarcasm. It was purely, cleanly detached—polite but with no intention of continuing the conversation.

I gripped the umbrella handle, my nails digging into my palms: "...Just asking."

Caleb didn't ask further.

He gave an "Mhm," and lifted his hand to check his watch.

"The procedures are finished. If you need anything, contact the funeral home. My work ends here."

The implication was clear: he didn't want to see me again.

And rightly so. Having an ex-girlfriend晃(晃) around every few days—what was that supposed to be?

I nodded and said, "I understand."

He turned and walked toward the outside of the cemetery.