Julian stood behind the curtain, watching her walk into the service center.

He stayed in the inn for three days.

Every morning at seven, he stood at the window watching her go to work, and every evening he watched her cross the street after work to return to her rented apartment.

On the evening of the third day, he went downstairs.

Julian found the porridge shop she had mentioned during their college days—on Anhe Road, in the old town, with a very small storefront.

He bought a serving of century egg and lean pork porridge, packed it in a paper bag, and walked to the building where she rented her apartment.

Julian stood under a streetlight and waited.

After nine o'clock, Clara returned.

She walked over from the corner of the street, and the moment she saw him, her footsteps came to a halt.

The light fell on him; his trench coat was wrinkled, there was dark, bruised skin under his eyes, and green stubble had sprouted on his chin.

This man never let himself look so disheveled—at home, even his shirts had to be ironed to be crisp.

Now he stood in the November night wind of Anhe, clutching a paper bag in his hand, like a child who had done something wrong.

Clara walked over without detouring.

When she passed in front of him, she didn't stop.

"Clara," he called to her.

"I brought you some porridge. You once said that the century egg and lean pork porridge on Anhe Road was delicious."

She stopped.

It wasn't because the sentence was particularly moving.

It was because of the caution in his voice—a caution she had never heard before, humble and fearful that one wrong word would push her further away.

Three years ago, she had been just like this.

"Julian, are you coming home for dinner today? If it's inconvenient, never mind, it doesn't matter."

"Julian, did I disturb you? Then I'll hang up first; you go ahead and get busy."

"Julian, if you don't want to talk about it, then never mind, I won't ask."

Exactly the same.

So cautious. Afraid of disturbing, afraid of being considered annoying.

Only now did Clara understand that that caution didn't come from love, but from fear.

Fear of losing.

So Julian was afraid now, too.

Clara turned around and looked at him.

The streetlight fell on his face, revealing all his dishevelment.

"Julian, what are you doing here? Did you come to give me the divorce agreement?"

Julian said hurriedly: "I didn't sign the agreement; I won't sign it."

"It doesn't matter if you don't sign it."

Clara's voice was very calm: "After two years of separation, the court will automatically grant a divorce."

Julian's face went pale for a moment. He wanted to say something, but couldn't say anything at all.

He had never seen Clara like this.

Calm, rational, and even carrying a hint of cruelty.

"Clara." He called her name again, his voice trembling: "I know I was wrong."

"Where were you wrong?" Clara asked.

The question was simple, but Julian fell silent.

Because he didn't know.

He knew he had said the wrong things and done the wrong things, but if asked to clearly state where he was wrong, he couldn't.

Clara watched his silence and smiled.

The smile was very faint, so faint it was almost without an arc.

But Julian understood the meaning of that smile.

It was disbelief.

He didn't believe a single word of it.

"Look, you don't know where you were wrong. You came to find me, not because you’ve changed."

"It's because you are missing someone to cook for you, and missing someone waiting for you at home."

Julian’s eyes turned red.

Clara looked at him and took a step back.

"Take the porridge back; I'm not drinking it."

She turned and went upstairs.

Julian stood downstairs, clutching the bowl of porridge, the paper bag deformed by his grip.

He didn't chase after her.

Because he knew chasing her would be useless.

Clara wouldn't listen to what he had to say.

She had heard enough.

Chapter 10

Julian did not leave.

He appeared downstairs from Clara’s apartment at seven o’clock every morning, changing the flavors of the porridge in his hand.

Century egg and lean pork, mushroom and shredded chicken, yam and pork rib, pumpkin and millet.

He cycled through the entire menu of that porridge shop.

Clara never accepted it once.

When she didn't take it, he would place it on the steps, weighing the paper bag down with a stone, then retreat to stand by the streetlight, watching Clara emerge from the building.

Clara would pass that paper bag every time.

Sometimes she wouldn't stop and would walk straight past it.

Sometimes she would slow her pace and glance down at it, but she never bent down to pick it up.

Julian wouldn't speak either, just standing in place with his hands in his trench coat pockets, his gaze chasing after her departing figure.

On the seventh day, it rained in Anhe.

Clara went downstairs holding an umbrella and saw Julian standing under the streetlight, not holding an umbrella. The shoulder of his trench coat was soaked, and he was holding a white paper bag as usual.

She stood under her umbrella and looked at him for a few seconds: "Why aren't you using an umbrella?"

"It wasn't raining when I left." His voice was pressed very low by the sound of the rain.

"Then why didn't you find a place to hide from it?"

"I was afraid that if you left early, I would miss you."

Clara tightened her grip on the umbrella handle.

As she walked over and passed by his side, she tilted the umbrella toward him for a brief moment.

Rainwater struck the surface of the umbrella, making a pattering sound.

Julian was stunned.

In that instant, he smelled the scent of disinfectant on Clara.

It was very faint, just like before.

Previously, he hated this smell.

Now, he was afraid of this smell disappearing.

Clara’s umbrella only tilted for a second before she pulled it back and continued walking forward.

Julian stood in place, rainwater streaming down his face; he couldn't tell if it was rain or something else.

On the eighth day, Julian did not appear.

On the ninth day, he didn't either.

Every morning when Clara passed that streetlight, there was no paper bag on the steps, and that person was not under the light.

She told herself he had gone back.

Julian was an associate chief physician of cardiac surgery; he had surgeries to perform and patients to manage.

He was just temporarily unaccustomed to it; once he grew used to her absence, he would return to his original life.

Just like her.

She, too, had grown accustomed to a life without him.

On the morning of the tenth day, just as Clara arrived at the service center, her phone rang.

It was a number from Qiyan.

She hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Clara."

It was Julian’s voice on the other end, hoarse as if sandpaper had scraped his throat.

"I was in a car accident; my leg is broken."

Clara’s fingers tightened abruptly, and her phone almost slipped from her palm.

"Clara, could you come and see me?"

Clara was silent for a long time before she finally spoke.

"Which hospital are you in?"

The other side of the line was quiet for a second, then Julian’s slightly rapid breathing came through.

"Qiyan City First People's Hospital, Orthopedic Surgery Department, Bed 3."

"I'll arrive tonight."

Having said that, she hung up the phone.

Clara stood there, clutching the phone in her hand.

She told herself this was out of humanitarianism.

He was her husband in name, with whom she had not yet divorced. He had been in an accident, his leg was broken, and there was no one by his side.

It was appropriate for her to make the trip.

It was only right and proper, unrelated to anything else.

Afterward, she opened her phone and booked a train ticket to Qiyan.

Chapter 11

When Clara arrived in Qiyan, the sky was completely dark.

Standing at the door of Julian's hospital room, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Julian was lying on the hospital bed, his left leg in a cast and suspended in mid-air. An indwelling needle was in the back of his right hand, and an IV bottle hung by the bed. He wasn't wearing a patient gown, but his own white T-shirt, the neckline slightly loose, revealing a stretch of his collarbone.

He lifted his head when he heard the movement, his fingers freezing.

Clara didn't look at him; she walked straight to the foot of the bed, picked up the medical record folder hanging there, and opened it to take a look.

"Tibial fracture." She closed the folder and put it back in its original place.

Julian looked at her, surprised: "You came!"