I bit my lip, holding back for a long time, but finally, I couldn't help it.

"Okay," I said. "Starting from boyfriend."

He was stunned for a second, then laughed.

It was the kind of smile I hadn't seen in a long time—the kind with stars in his eyes.

He lowered his head, slowly, slowly drawing closer. My heart was beating so fast, so fast that I thought it would pop out of my throat.

Then his lips landed on my forehead.

Very light, very hot.

Like a feather, and like a brand.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for being willing to give me another chance."

I closed my eyes, tears sliding down from the corners of my eyes.

Not out of sadness, but that feeling of finally being able to let out a breath after holding it in for too long.

Outside the window, Shanghai was brightly lit, a city of ten thousand lights.

And this one, at last, was ours again.

Chapter 24

When spring arrived, everything began to recover.

Julian was planning something mysterious, keeping it hidden from me the whole time.

I didn't ask much about it.

On an ordinary morning, Julian shook me awake: "Wife, I'm taking you somewhere."

These three words made my heartbeat skip a beat. We hadn't used this form of address for a long time—not that it wasn't true legally, but during the three months of our cold war and the forty-five days we spent apart in Paris, we had tacitly shelved it.

He took me to the Civil Affairs Bureau.

It wasn't to register our marriage; we didn't need to do that.

He took me to the road right in front of the Civil Affairs Bureau.

Twelve years ago, when we first came here to register our marriage, the road hadn't been paved yet; it was full of potholes. My high heel got stuck in a crack, and he squatted down to help me pull it out before simply carrying me on his back.

"Do you remember?" he asked.

"I remember," I said. "You carried me on your back through the whole street, and passersby were watching."

"I didn't care," he said. "What I cared about was that you were too heavy, and I was sweating from carrying you."

I tapped him.

He laughed and pulled a small box from his pocket.

It wasn't a ring box—the ring had always been hanging around his neck, never once taken off.

This was a smaller box, white and velvet-covered.

I opened it.

Inside was a new pair of wedding bands.

They weren't diamond rings; they were plain platinum bands, with a single line engraved on the inside: "Loving you from the beginning, every single day."

"The original rings were too bitter," he said. "They witnessed too many grievances, cold wars, and tears. Let's change to a new pair; starting today, let them only hold good memories."

I looked at him, tears welling up in my eyes.

"Julian, you're doing this again."

"You don't like them?"

"I like them." I put the woman's ring on; the size was perfect. He handed me the man's ring, and I helped him put it on. His hand was shaking a little, and it took a long time for me to get it on.

"You can't even put on a ring properly," he whispered.

"It's your hand that's shaking."

"I'm not."

"You are."

He looked down at the brand-new plain band on his ring finger, silent for a few seconds, then looked up at me. The sunlight fell into his eyes, bright and shining like stars shattered on the ground.

"Clara." His voice was a bit hoarse.

"Yes."

"Starting today, we restart. Not returning to how it was before—it's a restart. Something new."

I looked into his eyes, remembering a year ago in the hospital ward when he had said the same thing.

Back then, I didn't answer because I didn't believe him.

And now?

"Okay," I said.

He smiled.

It was that kind of smile I hadn't seen in a long time—eyes curved, corners of his mouth turned up, just like the boy holding daisies at eighteen.

We stood at the entrance of the Civil Affairs Bureau, just like twelve years ago.

Only this time, no one was carrying anyone, and no one was too nervous to speak. We had both changed, becoming more aware of what is worth cherishing.

"Let's go," he took my hand.

"Where to?"

"Home."

Back to our home.

That not-so-large apartment, the refrigerator stacked with snacks I love, the blanket he always used on the sofa, the wedding photo on the nightstand.

I stood by the window with a wine glass, looking out at the night view of Shanghai.

When I flew away from here a year ago, I never thought I would come back, and I certainly never thought I would come back this way—not by patching up a broken mirror, but by replacing it with a new one.

Footsteps sounded behind me. Julian walked over and stood beside me.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Thinking about a year ago," I said. "I was crying my eyes out on the plane, and then I found the keys and address you had prepared in my bag."

"Did you think I was annoying back then?"

"Not annoying," I thought about it. "It was love and hate entwined."

He laughed: "And now?"

"Now?" I turned to look at him; the light fell on his face, softening his silhouette. "Now, there is only love left."

He lowered his head and kissed me.

This time, it wasn't the forehead.

It was the lips.

Chapter 25

Three months after we got back together, I discovered that my period was two weeks late.

I didn't tell Julian; I went to the pharmacy by myself and bought a pregnancy test.

Back home, I locked myself in the bathroom, sat on the toilet lid, and stared at the white stick.

Two lines.

My hands started to tremble.

Not because of fear, but because I was too happy.

But I didn't dare to be happy too early. Three years ago, I had sat on this same toilet lid, seen the same two lines, and felt the same shaky happiness.

But that child didn't stay.

I hid the pregnancy test in a drawer and walked out of the bathroom.

Julian was sitting on the sofa looking at documents. He looked up at me: "What's wrong? You look so pale."

"I'm fine," I walked over and sat down beside him. "Maybe I didn't sleep well."

He didn't press for details, just reached out and pulled me into his arms.

I suffered from insomnia that night.

I lay in the darkness, one hand on my flat lower abdomen, feeling the faint warmth emanating from there.

Is there a new life there? Or is it just my imagination?

I didn't know whether to tell him.

I was afraid that if I told him, I would end up with empty joy just like three years ago.

The next morning, I went to the hospital alone.

Blood draw, waiting for results, sitting on the bench in the hallway—my palms were slick with sweat.

An hour later, the doctor called my name.

"Congratulations, you are pregnant. Six weeks, all indicators are normal."

I stood there, and tears streamed down my face.

The doctor thought I was just too happy and handed me tissues: "Take care to rest, get regular check-ups, and don't be under too much pressure."

I nodded, walked out of the clinic, sat on the long chair in the hospital hallway, and pulled out my phone.

In my contacts, the name "Julian" was right at the top.

I dialed him.

He answered after one ring: "What's wrong?"

"Julian," my voice was trembling. "You're going to be a father."

There was silence on the other end for three seconds.

Then I heard the sound of a chair crashing to the floor, then hurried footsteps, and then his hoarse voice: "Where are you?"

"At the hospital."

"Don't move. I'm coming to get you."

Fifteen minutes later, he appeared at the end of the hospital hallway.

He had run in; I didn't know where he had dropped his suit jacket, his shirt collar was open, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

He ran to me, squatted down, cradled my face with both hands, his eyes rimmed with red.

"Really?" His voice was hoarse beyond recognition.

I handed him the lab report.

He took one look, then lowered his head and buried his face in my knees.

He was crying.

Julian, the man who never cried, was burying his face in my knees on a bench in a hospital hallway, crying like a child.

I lifted my hand to his hair, stroking it again and again.

"Don't cry," I said. "It will be fine this time."

"I know," his voice was muffled. "This time I will always be with you both."

Eight months later, I gave birth to a daughter.

She was very small, wrinkled, but her cry was very loud.

Julian held her, his hands shaking so much he almost couldn't hold her steady. He looked down at that tiny life, tears dripping onto her swaddling clothes one by one.

"She looks like you," he said.

"How does she look like me? She's so ugly."

"All newborns are ugly," he looked at our daughter, the corners of his mouth curling up. "But your mother was ugly as a baby, too."

I glared at him: "You saw her?"

"I saw her," he looked up at me, light in his eyes. "When you were just born, I was in the ward next door. My mother told me—we were born on the same day, six hours apart."

I was stunned.

"You never mentioned that."

"I'm telling you now." He lowered his head, kissed our daughter on the forehead, and then kissed me on the forehead. "From the first day to the last, we have always been together. We just got separated for a little while in the middle."

"And now?" I asked.

"Now we aren't going anywhere." He held my hand. "Never again."

Outside the window, the sunset dyed the whole city golden.

The ward was very quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of our daughter's breathing.

I leaned on Julian's shoulder; he was looking at our daughter, and I was looking at the two of them.

"Julian," I said.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"Thank you for not giving up on me."

He turned his head, looked at me, and smiled.

"Clara, it was you who didn't give up on me."

Outside the window, the night was gentle, and the wind had stopped.

And our hands, from now on, will never let go again.

— The End.