I didn't answer. I pretended to be asleep.

He didn't ask again.

But I didn't fall asleep for that entire night, listening to his even breathing until the dawn.

Chapter 22

The next morning, he got up early to cook porridge as usual, as if nothing had happened the night before.

The millet porridge bubbled in the pot; he lowered the heat, sliced a dish of pickled vegetables, and fried two sunny-side-up eggs.

I sat at the dining table drinking the porridge he cooked, my heart feeling heavy and stifled.

The porridge was warm, just right to drink—he had tested the temperature.

The edges of the fried eggs were crispy, just the way I liked them.

In the three years we were separated, I thought time would dilute everything, but the moment I saw him again, I knew that nothing had been diluted.

All the things I had suppressed at the bottom of my heart surged back the moment we met.

But so what? The issues between him and me could never be solved by a simple "I love you."

I couldn't drag him down any longer.

That night, when he came home from work, he saw me sitting alone on the balcony, lost in thought.

I was sitting on the old rattan chair, my legs curled up, my chin resting on my knees.

The night wind in Shanghai was strong, blowing my hair all over my face.

He walked over, handed me a glass of warm water, and sat down beside me.

The rattan chair was small and couldn't fit two people, so he squatted by the railing, eye-level with me.

The night wind messed up his hair; he reached out to smooth it, but failed, and a few strands stuck up.

The moonlight shone on his face, making his contours very soft.

He reached out to help me brush the hair off my face; his fingertips touched my cheek, feeling cool.

"Go back inside, don't catch a cold."

I didn't move, and he didn't move.

We sat side-by-side on the balcony like that, and neither of us spoke.

The light from a streetlamp shone from afar, making his profile flicker between light and shadow.

I suddenly wanted to lean on his shoulder.

To rest my head there, close my eyes, and think of nothing.

Just lean there for a while.

But I didn't.

In mid-October, a call came from our hometown.

Grandmother had fallen, was sent to the hospital, and the doctor said that because of her age, her organs were all failing, telling us to prepare ourselves mentally.

My hands kept trembling when I received the call; my phone nearly slipped out of my palm.

Grandmother was the last relative I had left in this world.

My parents left early, my relatives lived their own lives, and only Grandmother had raised me.

Caleb helped me ask for leave, bought the earliest train tickets, and accompanied me back to the small town.

On the train, he sat next to me the whole time without speaking, but his hand stayed behind the back of my chair. He didn't touch me, yet it felt like a wall.

When we arrived at the hospital, Grandmother was lying in the hospital bed, her face waxy and yellow, and she had grown much thinner.

She saw me and smiled, her breath as thin as a thread: "Mina is here."

The voice was as light as the wind; I had to lean close to her mouth to hear it clearly.

I held her hand, and tears wouldn't stop falling.

Her hand was very dry and cold, her knuckles protruding, her skin like a thin layer of paper.

She saw Caleb standing at the door again and gestured for him to come over: "Child, come here."

He walked over and squatted by the bed.

Grandmother took his hand, then took my hand, and placed our hands together, stacking them.

"You two, stop fighting. Be well, be together."

I wanted to pull my hand back, but Grandmother gripped it tightly.

She didn't have much strength left, yet that grip was incredibly powerful, as if she were using the last of her energy.

She looked at me, her gaze holding an earnestness I had never seen before.

"Mina, if you have him in your heart, stop being so stubborn. In one's life, how many people can you meet who truly treat you well?"

My tears fell even harder.

Caleb gripped my hand back; his palm was very hot, enveloping my entire hand.

That night, Grandmother passed away.

It was very quiet, as if she had just fallen asleep.

When she left, the corners of her mouth were turned upward; I didn't know if she had dreamed of something, or if she was finally at ease.

I knelt by the bedside, crying until I couldn't catch my breath.

Chapter 23

The night after the funeral, I sat alone in the courtyard of the old house.

The courtyard was small, no more than a few paces in length and width.

A loquat tree grew in the corner, planted by my grandmother years ago. It had grown very tall, its branches stretching out beyond the wall, rustling in the night breeze.

Beneath the tree was a small, cement-encased flower bed where jasmine used to grow. Later, when my grandmother’s health declined, the jasmine was left untended and had been withered for over half a year, leaving only bare, brown branches.

The moon was bright, casting a layer of frost-like light across the yard.

I sat on a stone stool beneath the loquat tree as Caleb walked out carrying a cup of hot water, which he handed to me.

He sat down beside me.

The stone stool wasn't large; it was a bit cramped for two, and his shoulder was almost pressing against mine.

"You should go back," I said. My voice was hoarse and sounded unlike my own, as if scrubbed by sandpaper. "You've already helped me a lot. I can handle the rest myself."

He looked at my face and remained silent for a long time.

The moonlight fell into his eyes, which held something deep and heavy—like stones at the bottom of a river, scrubbed for years by the constant flow of water, their edges worn smooth, yet they remained unwashed away.

"Mina, when can you stop trying to be strong?"

I turned my face away.

The loquat tree in the corner swayed in the breeze, and a few leaves fell, drifting to my feet, landing face-down on the paving stones.

"I'm not trying to be strong."

"You are. From the moment we met until now, you've always been trying to be strong."

Tears welled up again.

I didn't want to cry in front of him, but tears are not something you can suppress just because you want to.

I bit my lip and suddenly tasted a hint of blood.

"Because I don't need your pity."

"I don't pity you." His voice was very low, so low it sounded like he was speaking to himself. "I just want to be with you."

The courtyard was very quiet.

The leaves of the loquat tree rustled in the wind, making a faint, fragmented sound, like someone whispering.

In the distance, someone had their television on; I couldn't hear what program it was, only vague human voices and laughter carried over from several alleys away, sounding like noises from another world.

I didn't speak again.

He just sat beside me like that, keeping me company all night long.

When dawn broke, I fell asleep leaning on his shoulder.

When I woke up, he was in the same position, having not moved at all, his shoulder as stiff as a stone.

He must have been afraid of waking me, so he hadn't shifted his position for the entire night.

"Why didn't you call me?" I sat up straight.

"You were asleep," he said. His voice was raspier than usual.

I looked at his bloodshot eyes, the dark circles beneath them, the new stubble on his chin, and the dry, peeling skin on his lips.

I stood up, walked back into the house, and began to pack.

He followed behind me, helping me organize Grandmother’s belongings, checking the doors and windows of the old house, and turning off the water, electricity, and gas.

On the train back to Shanghai, I leaned against the window and remained silent.

He looked out the window and didn't speak either.

The fields and villages outside the window flew past rapidly, turning from green to gray, and from gray to black.

After passing through several tunnels, my ears buzzed.

His hand rested on the seat between us, the back of the hand facing up, his fingers spread slightly.

I looked at that hand for a long time.

His fingers were long, the knuckles well-defined, and his nails neatly trimmed.

His ring finger was empty; he wore nothing.

There was a shallow scar on the back of his hand—I didn't know when he had gotten it.