She reached out and took his hand.

His hand was warm, just as warm as Clara had imagined.

Chapter 15

Clara's hand was in his palm.

Only for an instant. Then she pulled it back.

"Holding hands once doesn't mean anything," she said.

Julian's hand hung in mid-air, slowly dropping down.

He looked at his empty palm without looking up.

"I know."

The funeral home lobby was very quiet, and the newly hung plaque reflected the light slightly.

The golden characters, each one felt as if it were carved into her heart—The gatekeeper of the living, the ferryman of the dead.

He said they were people on the same path, a sentence Clara had waited three years to hear.

But she had waited too long, so long that she dared not believe it.

"Julian, take me back to Anhe," she said.

"Okay."

He turned to walk toward the door.

His left leg dragged on the floor, making a soft scraping sound.

It was only a few dozen steps from the lobby to the door, but it took him a long time, and a fine layer of sweat seeped onto his forehead.

His leg was even more swollen than when he arrived, his pant leg stretched taut.

He didn't let her help him.

The taxi arrived, and he opened the back door.

Clara got in; he walked around to the other side, opened the door, and sat in sideways.

He couldn't lift his left leg, so he bent down, moved his ankle with his hand, and nudged it in bit by bit.

He gritted his teeth, making no sound.

The car started moving.

The night view of Qiyan receded outside the window.

She had lived in this city for three years, feeling both familiar and strange.

When they reached the train station, Clara got out and walked ahead.

He followed behind her, limping.

She walked too fast, and he couldn't keep up, his body swaying.

She stopped without looking back.

Only after she heard him stand steady did she continue walking forward.

On the train, he sat beside her, leaning against the window with his eyes closed.

His left leg couldn't straighten, pressed against the back of the seat in front, his posture very awkward.

His brow remained furrowed.

He was in pain, but he didn't say anything.

Clara watched him and suddenly remembered something.

In the past, when she had a fever of 40 degrees and went to the emergency room alone, she had the same expression when she lay on the hospital bed—furrowed brows, gritted teeth, never complaining of pain.

Back then, she had thought, if someone were by her side, would she feel a little better?

But no one was there.

Now he was by her side, but she didn't ask him if he was in pain.

Because she was afraid that once she asked, her heart would soften.

At 2:00 AM, the train arrived in Anhe.

Clara got off, and he followed behind.

The wind at the station exit was strong; she hailed a taxi and got in.

He stood by the side and didn't get in.

"Get in," she said.

"You go first; I'll wait for the next one."

"Your leg—"

"It's fine."

Clara looked into his eyes.

There were red bloodshot spots in his eyes, and a kind of stubbornness she had never seen before.

He refused to get in, not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't dare.

He was afraid that if he got into her car, she would think he was pestering her.

"Julian, get in."

He was stunned for a moment, then opened the door and sat in.

Neither spoke for the entire ride. When they arrived at his place first, Clara asked the driver to stop for a moment.

When he got out of the car, he looked at her.

"Clara, what porridge do you want to drink tomorrow morning?"

"Didn't you say you wouldn't deliver it anymore?"

"I changed my mind."

She didn't reply.

He closed the car door and limped into the residential complex.

The car continued on toward her home.

Her phone vibrated.

【It hurts a lot today, but you held my hand, so the pain was worth it.】

Clara stared at the message, typed a few words, then deleted them.

Finally, she replied with only one character.

【Mm.】

The next day, he didn't come to deliver porridge; instead, he drove over to pick her up, saying he wanted to take her somewhere.

The car drove for twenty minutes and stopped in a place she had never been before.

The new site of the Anhe Funeral Service Center.

Chapter 16

The service center was still under construction; the main structure was up, and workers were inside decorating.

"This is..." Clara was stunned.

"The new service center," he said. "I invested in it."

"You invested in it?"

"I sold the house in Qiyan. With the remaining money, part was donated to the Qiyan funeral home, and part was invested here."

Clara stood at the entrance of the construction site, looking at the building under construction.

He spoke so nonchalantly, as if investing in a funeral home was as simple as buying a piece of clothing.

But she knew what that house meant to him—

It was left to him by his parents, and he had lived there for thirty years.

"Julian, why did you invest here?"

"Because you are here," he looked at her. "Since you work here, this is where I want to invest."

The wind blew from the construction site, carrying the smell of cement and dust.

"Julian, you really have changed."

"I haven't changed," he said. "I'm just finally willing to look at you."

The new service center wouldn't be finished until the end of the year.

Julian would go to check the progress once a week and send photos to Clara.

She looked at every photo but didn't reply.

The building in the photos rose floor by floor, consistent with the frequency of his messages—punctual, regular, and never interrupted.

She remembered how she used to be just like that—sending him messages every day, asking what time he would be off work, what he wanted to eat, if he was tired from surgery.

He would occasionally reply with an "Mm," and she would read it over and over for half a day.

Now it was her turn.

She placed her phone face down on the table and told herself: Just look at it.

He can build his building; you live your life.

Reply once, and he will think he can arrange your life again.

...

The next afternoon, Julian arrived.

He had bought a bouquet of white roses—fresh, with water droplets on the petals—and stood at her door wearing that dark gray sweater. His hair was cut shorter, and his beard was shaved clean.

Only his eyes were different; they used to be cold, but now they had warmth.

"Come in," Clara said.

He walked in and placed the white roses on the dining table.

Clara had cooked four dishes—braised pork ribs, stir-fried seasonal vegetables, tomato and egg soup, and the sweet and sour fish he used to love.

He stood by the dining table, looking at the table full of dishes, and his eyes suddenly reddened.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"You used to cook so many dishes every day," his voice was a bit hoarse. "I never said it was delicious."

"It's not too late to say it now."

"It's delicious," he said. "Clara, the food you cook is the best in the world."

Clara was stunned.

In the past, he never gave feedback; he would just finish eating, put down his chopsticks, get up, and leave.

Now he was saying it was "the best in the world."

It was an exaggeration.

But she saw something in his eyes—sincerity.

He sat down and picked up his chopsticks.

He picked up a piece of pork rib, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly.

He kept his head down, not looking at her.

But Clara saw his eyelashes trembling. He was holding back tears.

The meal took a long time; he ate all four dishes and finished the tomato and egg soup.

"Clara."

"Yes."

"Could you cook for me once a week from now on?"

"Can't you cook for yourself already?"

"It's different," he said. "The food you cook has the taste of home. What I cook myself is just food."

Clara looked at him, saying nothing.

"Never mind, pretend I didn't say it," he lowered his head. "I shouldn't have made a request."

"Julian."

"Yes."

"Come over once a week to eat."

He raised his head to look at her, his eyes full of light.

"Okay."

Chapter 17

Julian came over for dinner once a week.

On Saturday nights, he would arrive punctually, bringing a bouquet of white roses to place on the dining table.

After dinner, he would proactively wash the dishes.

Back at home, he used to put down his chopsticks and walk away, leaving Clara to wash the dishes.