When he saw her, the corners of his mouth moved slightly.

Clara walked over without detouring.

"Julian, how long have you been standing here?"

"I don't remember."

"Doesn't your leg hurt?"

"It does."

"Then why are you still standing?"

"I wanted to see you," he said. "I hadn't seen you yet today."

The wind was strong, and the snow fell between them like a curtain.

"You've seen me; you can go now."

"Okay."

He turned and walked in the opposite direction, limping.

After a few steps, he stopped without looking back.

"Clara."

"Yes."

"I won't leave. I rented a place nearby, a fifteen-minute walk. I will stay here, waiting until you are willing to look at me."

He left.

Snow fell on the path he had walked, quickly covering his footprints.

Clara stood in place, watching his silhouette disappear around the street corner. She stood there for a long time, long enough for her hair to be covered in snow.

That night, she suffered from insomnia.

It wasn't because of hatred, but because of fear. She was afraid of her own heart softening.

He said he rented a place. He said he would stay here forever.

He had never done these things for her before.

Before, when he was home and she sat beside him, he wouldn't spare her a second glance.

Now he stood in the snow, waiting for her to give him a glance.

But she dared not look anymore.

One look, and her heart softens once.

One softening, and she gets one step closer to that abyss.

She had finally climbed out; she couldn't fall back in.

The next morning, when Clara went out, there was still a bowl of porridge on the steps.

The sticky note had only one sentence on it.

【The snow has stopped today; wear an extra layer.】

Julian began to appear in front of her every day.

Either waiting at her door or waiting at the entrance of the service center.

He didn't bother her, didn't talk to her, just stood there.

Sometimes watching from afar, sometimes approaching and then backing away.

He was like someone who had learned the meaning of boundaries, carefully controlling the distance—neither too far nor too close—just right, in a place where she wouldn't frown.

One time, Clara worked overtime until very late; it was already dark when she came out.

Julian was sitting on the steps at the entrance of the service center, holding a book, the light from the streetlamp falling on the pages.

His left leg was stretched out straight, daring not to bend, the swollen ankle making his pant leg taut.

He saw her, closed the book, and stood up.

"You haven't eaten yet, right?" he asked.

Clara didn't answer.

He turned and walked to the bottom of the steps, took a lunch box out of an insulated bag, and handed it over.

"I made it. Try it."

Clara looked at the lunch box but didn't take it.

"Julian, you can cook?"

"I learned," he said. "Before, you were always the one cooking for me; now it's my turn to cook for you."

"You don't need to do these things."

"I want to."

Clara took the lunch box and opened it to look.

Tomato scrambled eggs; the tomatoes were cut into uneven sizes, and the eggs were overcooked—it looked terrible.

She tasted a bite.

It was salty.

But she ate it all.

He stood by and watched her eat, saying nothing. When she finished, he took back the empty box and put it into the insulated bag.

"What do you want to eat tomorrow?"

"You don't need to ask. I won't answer."

"Then I'll just cook whatever."

He turned and left. Limping, without looking back.

Clara stood under the streetlight watching his back.

He walked with difficulty; he dared not put force on his left leg, and his body swayed with every step.

But he walked quickly, as if afraid she would regret it and return the lunch box to him.

That night, Clara lay in bed, tossing and turning, thinking about one question.

Has he changed?

Before, he couldn't cook. Before, he wouldn't even enter the kitchen. Before, he would complain that the food she made was too salty or too bland, but he never said "delicious" or "not delicious."

He said nothing at all.

Now he had learned to cook, learned to deliver porridge, learned to wait for her in the snow.

He had learned so many things he couldn't do before.

But could he learn to love her?

She didn't know.

Chapter 14

The twentieth day.

Julian stood at Clara's door, holding a lunch box in his hand.

When Clara reached to take the lunch box, he didn't let go.

She looked up at him.

There was something in his eyes that she had never seen before.

"Clara, come back to Qiyan with me for a trip."

"For what?"

"You'll know when we get there."

"I'm not going."

"I'm begging you," he said.

This was the first time he had ever used the word "beg."

Clara looked into his eyes and remained silent for a long time.

"When?"

"This weekend."

"For how long?"

"One day. Sunday to go, Sunday to come back."

She didn't answer.

He let go and placed the lunch box in her hands.

"Since you didn't say no, I'll take that as a yes."

He turned and left.

Clara stood at the door, holding the warm lunch box.

On Saturday morning, Julian came to pick her up.

He was wearing a very clean white shirt, his hair was trimmed short, and he was clean-shaven.

He looked just like he used to back in Qiyan—neat, decent, meticulous.

Only his left leg still couldn't take much weight, and he was slightly limping as he walked.

On the train, he sat beside her. For seven hours, they hardly spoke.

He kept looking out the window, and Clara kept her head down reading a book.

Neither mentioned Qiyan, and neither mentioned that home.

When they arrived at the Qiyan train station, he hailed a taxi.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Julian glanced at Clara: "Qiyan City Funeral Home."

Clara was stunned.

"Julian, why are you taking me to the funeral home?"

He didn't answer.

By the time the car stopped at the gate of the funeral home, it was already dark.

The gray-white building was lit, and a sign reading "24-Hour Service" hung at the door.

Julian got out of the car, walked around to Clara's side, and opened the door for her.

"Get out."

"Tell me first, why are we here?"

"To show you something."

Clara got out of the car and followed him into the funeral home.

He walked very slowly, having to use his hand on the railing for every step he climbed.

Clara walked behind him, watching his back, and suddenly remembered something—

He had never set foot in this place before; he thought it was dirty.

Now, leaning on a cane, he walked in step by step, sweating from the pain in his leg, without stopping.

He led her to the center of the main lobby and stopped.

A new plaque was hung on the wall in the center of the hall. The golden characters reflected slightly under the lights.

【The gatekeeper of the living, the ferryman of the dead—to all those who guard life and dignity】

Clara stood beneath the plaque, looking up, tears falling down.

"Julian, this is..."

"I donated it," he said. "In your name, I donated it to the funeral home."

He looked at the plaque, his voice very soft.

"You are not bad luck; you are a ferryman, just like me."

"Clara, I was wrong before; we aren't walking different paths, we are on the same path. You send people off at the finish line, and I receive them at the starting line. Without you, this path is incomplete."

I stood there, crying and unable to speak.

Three years.

I finally waited for these words.

In a place I thought I would never hear them, from the mouth of someone I thought would never say them.

"Clara," Julian turned to look at me, his eyes red.

"I used to think you were dirty, and I was blind. You aren't dirty; you are the cleanest person I have ever met."

"When you wipe the faces of the deceased, when you work in the funeral home until the early hours of the morning, when you are cursed for being bad luck but don't fight back—you are the best person in this world."

"It is I who wasn't worthy of you."

He reached out his hand, slowly, carefully, as if afraid of startling something.

"Clara, are you willing to give me another chance? Not as a husband and wife, but as two people on the same path."

Clara looked at the hand he extended.

The knuckles were distinct, slender, and clean. For three years, this hand had never voluntarily held hers.

Now it was extended before her, trembling slightly.