The director took off his reading glasses and was silent for a long time.

"I knew this day would come."

He didn't open the letter, just tucked it into a drawer.

"I’ve heard of the Peace Funeral Center; it’s large-scale and has new equipment. You’ll have better prospects there than here."

Clara thanked him softly.

The director took a box of wedding candies from the cabinet and handed them to her.

"My son is getting married next month. I intended to invite you to the wedding, but since you are leaving, take these candies first."

Clara took the box, the golden "Xi" (double happiness) character reflecting slightly in the light.

She suddenly recalled Julian saying at their wedding banquet that her profession was "bad luck," and she felt a bit hesitant.

"Director, it’s not auspicious for a mortician to attend a wedding, is it?"

The director put his reading glasses back on and looked at her, his expression gentle and solemn.

"Silly child, how could you be inauspicious? You safeguard the final dignity for the deceased and soothe the regrets of the living. You are also an angel—an angel guarding another kind of journey home."

Clara lowered her head, her eyes stinging.

So, the word "angel" wasn't something reserved only for those who wore white coats.

After leaving the funeral home, she stood before the grey-white building for a long time, then went home to pack her luggage.

There wasn't much.

A few changes of clothes and a pair of flat shoes.

When she reached the depths of the cupboard, her fingertips touched a piece of cardboard—

It was the marriage registration photo of her and Julian.

Taken in an automated photo booth, twenty yuan a sheet, and their only photo together.

In the picture, he wasn't smiling, his lips pressed into a straight line.

She, however, was smiling very hard, as if smiling for both of them.

Back then, she thought that as long as she smiled loudly enough, one day it would drown out his silence.

Clara put the photo back where it was; she wasn't taking it.

In the evening, when Julian returned, she had already pushed her suitcase into the storage room.

After showering, she returned to the bedroom. He was leaning against the headboard, flipping through a document; for once, he wasn't turned away from her.

"Come here."

Julian handed the document over.

Clara looked down and saw it was a letter of employment confirmation.

Cardiac surgery nursing position, in the same department as him.

Name: Clara.

Age: 28.

Former workplace: Rivertown Funeral Home.

Proposed position: Cardiac Surgery Nursing.

He had signed in every place that required a signature.

Including the "Spouse's Consent" section—he had signed "Agreed" on her behalf.

"You said last time you didn't want to go to Stephanie's department," Julian said, his tone flat, as if arranging a routine elective surgery.

"I thought about it, and coming to my department is fine too. With you under my nose, no one will give you a hard time."

When he said this, his expression was very serious—not mocking, not commanding, but genuinely feeling that he was helping her.

"Julian, I said it very clearly last time: I am not changing jobs."

Julian frowned, as if he were a patient who refused to follow a treatment plan.

"Must you be a mortician?"

"I must."

Hearing this, Julian looked at her, his eyes full of confusion, as if looking at a math problem he couldn't solve no matter how he calculated it.

"I don't understand. You studied nursing in college; you could have easily entered a formal hospital. Why must you stay with the dead?"

Clara looked at his bewildered expression and suddenly realized one thing.

He had never once asked her "why."

Three years ago, she said she was a mortician, and he said "quite a match," and she thought he accepted it.

Later, he repeatedly asked her to resign and change positions, and now he had even filled out an employment form for her; she thought he was disgusted by the profession.

But that wasn't it.

From beginning to end, Julian never felt that she was doing a job worth taking seriously.

Being a mortician wasn't a profession to him—it was a problem, a problem that needed to be solved.

And his way of solving the problem was to fill out forms for her, arrange things for her, and sign for her.

He never once thought to ask her:

"Why did you choose this? What are you thinking about when you do these things?"

"Julian, what if I simply refuse to sign?"

Julian’s expression didn't change much; he just pulled the confirmation letter back from her hands, placed it on the nightstand, and pressed it under the lamp.

"Not signing is fine too."

"As I said before, if you don't want to change jobs, we can have a child first. Once the baby is born, you can stay at home and won't need to go out to work anymore."

"That job of yours isn't good for your health, either."

Same tone, same calmness.

Clara looked at him and suddenly let out a small laugh.

"Julian, have you never even thought about a third possibility?"

Chapter 7

Clara said calmly, enunciating every word.

"I am not signing the confirmation letter, and I am not having a child. I will continue to work as a mortician."

Julian turned to look at her, neither enraged nor accusatory.

There was only one expression on his face—he genuinely did not understand.

"Then what do you want?"

Clara looked at Julian, and the last embers in her heart died out.

"Nothing. I'm going to sleep in the guest room."

Julian turned a page of his medical book and did not ask her to stay.

Early the next morning, Clara had not yet risen when Julian left.

He knocked on the guest room door once: "Remember to go to the hospital to report for duty today. I’ve already spoken to the head nurse."

The sound of his footsteps faded, and the door to the entryway closed.

Clara opened her eyes and sat up in bed.

Her suitcase was in the wardrobe, the divorce agreement was in the drawer, and her train ticket was on her phone.

She took them out one by one and laid them on the bed.

There were very few items; in three years, everything she could take from this home could be carried with two hands.

She had signed the divorce agreement last night.

She pressed her steel pen on top of it, took the key to his house off her keychain, and placed it beside it.

Before leaving, she stood in the living room and took a final look around.

The sofa, the coffee table, the chair he often sat in—everything was clean and neat, as if no one had ever lived there.

She suddenly remembered him asking, "Then what do you want?" last night.

It wasn't a demand, nor was it an attempt to make her stay.

He was sincerely expressing: I don't know what else you could want; I have already given you all the options I am capable of understanding.

Change jobs, or stay at home—you pick one.

But what Clara wanted had never been among his options.

She packed everything up, closed the door, and left this so-called "home" without looking back.

Before getting on the train, she put the divorce agreement into a document envelope, wrote down the hospital address and Julian’s name, and mailed it.

Afterward, she found Carriage 09 and sat down by the window.

Her phone lit up; Julian had sent a WeChat message: 【When are you arriving today? The head nurse is waiting.】

She didn't reply.

He sent a second one: 【Reply when you see this, I'm heading into surgery.】

Clara deleted the conversation thread and turned off her phone.

Outside the window, the tracks stretched into the distance; the sky was very blue, and the clouds were very thin.

For three years, she had lived as a variable in Julian’s set of options.

Adjustable, replaceable.

Among the options he gave her, there was never one for "continue working as a mortician."

But today, she chose for herself.

She wasn't picking from his options; she was walking out of them.

……

Meanwhile, at the hospital.

When Julian checked his phone for the third time, the head nurse walked into the office.

"Dr. Julian, has your family member not arrived yet?"

He locked his screen and dialed Clara’s number.

Powered off.

He stared at the two characters "Clara" on the screen, his fingers unconsciously tapping the desk twice.

Clara never turned her phone off.

For three years, her phone had always been on, and she always answered within three rings.

Sometimes when he called in the middle of the night after surgery, she would answer groggily, her voice soft, asking if he was coming home to eat.

What was wrong with today?

Stephanie happened to pass by the office door and, hearing the head nurse, leaned halfway in.