He failed time and time again.

When I came home from work and saw the mess in the kitchen, I asked what he was doing.

He said, "Steamed buns."

I stood at the kitchen doorway and watched for a while; I didn't help him, nor did I stop him.

On the fifth day, he finally brought out a plate of steaming hot buns, with two folds on top.

He said, "I remember you once said that the owner of that shop always folded the tip of the bun twice."

I looked at the plate of buns, and my eyes turned red.

I picked one up and took a bite. I chewed twice, then stopped.

"The taste is wrong," I said.

He nodded, "I know. I will keep learning."

I looked at him for a long time, then knocked over the plate of buns.

He wasn't angry, just carefully picked them up: "These taste too bad, I'll eat them. I'll make more for you."

I was silent for a long time.

The rain outside the window started again, pattering against the glass.

I stood up and walked to the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass.

My shoulders trembled slightly; I didn't know if I wanted to cry, or if I was just cold.

Chapter 13

I began to open up, slowly.

Not by blurting everything out at once, but little by little, like unraveling a knot of yarn that had been tangled for years.

The first thing I talked about was the old city wall.

I told him about that night when I couldn't find Liam, how I went to the old city wall and sat on the steps alone, waiting for dawn.

I didn't dare go back to my rented room, didn't dare turn on my phone, didn't dare see anyone.

While I sat there, I thought about many things.

I thought about Su Wanqing braiding my hair when we were little, about the first time I met Liam, and about that locked door at the civil affairs bureau.

"I thought you would come looking for me," I said. "I waited there all night."

Liam was silent. He hadn't gone.

He didn't know I would be there; he thought I didn't want to see him.

The second thing I talked about was the child.

I told him I hadn't known of its existence; the doctor had told me later.

The doctor came out of the operating room with a flat tone, saying that the uterus had been severely damaged and the possibility of future pregnancy was extremely low.

I lay on the hospital bed staring at the ceiling, not crying. By then, I had forgotten how to cry.

"Do you know," my voice was very soft, "I lost it before I even knew when I had conceived it."

Liam took my hand. I paused, then pulled it away.

The third thing I talked about was the time after that surgery.

I told him that when I came out of the operating room, there was no one in the corridor.

Su Wanqing had already gone in. Liam was nowhere to be found.

I lay alone on the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling; the light was very bright—blindingly bright.

I felt like I had been abandoned on an isolated island.

"At that time I thought," I said, "if only Liam were here."

His eyes turned red.

"But you still weren't there," I said. "After that, I stopped thinking about it."

I didn't continue; I just stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it open.

Cold wind poured in, blowing my hair across my face.

I said, "Liam, go back. I can't bear this."

"I'm not going back."

"What is the point of you staying here? All this boils down to one sentence: I can't get past it."

He said, "If you can't get past it, then don't. I'll stay here with you."

I turned around to look at him. The wind made my eyes red, but my gaze remained stubborn.

"Do you know that when you say things like that, I find it disgusting."

His eyes were also red, but his expression remained firm.

"I am serious. No matter what you think, I will be here."

My throat felt blocked.

I closed the window and sat down on the edge of the bed.

I didn't cry, I just lowered my head, placing my hands on my knees.

He walked over and squatted in front of me.

"Clara. You don't have to get better now. You don't have to pretend to be okay either. Whatever you are like, I want you."

I looked up at him, and the tears finally fell.

"Why won't you give up on me?" my voice was trembling. "You should have given up on me five years ago. Why did you have to come looking for me?"

"Because I can't let go."

I burst into sobs. Not the silent, lip-biting crying from before, but a real, uninhibited cry.

I shook as I wept, gasping for breath.

He pulled me into his arms. I gripped his clothes, buried my face in his chest, and cried like a child.

I didn't say thank you, didn't say sorry, didn't say anything at all.

I just cried, for a long time.

So long that the sky outside turned completely dark, so long that the streetlights in Bergen turned on one by one.

I was exhausted from crying and leaned against his shoulder, my eyes closed, tear droplets still hanging on my lashes.

My breathing slowly steadied, like a drowning person finally pushed onto the shore.

He didn't move, afraid of waking me.

In truth, I wasn't asleep.

After a long while, I spoke, my voice muffled: "Liam, sing to me."

Chapter 14

Liam was stunned for a moment: "Sing what?"

"Anything. Something you used to sing before."

Back in college, when I couldn't sleep, he would sing to me.

He didn't sing well, but every time, I would fall asleep while listening.

He cleared his throat and sang an old song.

"You ask me how deep my love for you is, how much I love you; my feelings won't shift, my love won't change, the moon represents my heart..."

His voice was low, flowing slowly in the quiet room.

I leaned on his shoulder, eyes closed, my fingers resting lightly on the back of his hand.

The rain outside the window had stopped at some point.

The church bells in the distance began to chime, one by one, echoing across the sea.

When he finished singing, I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"Liam."

"Hmm."

"How long have you been waiting for me?"

"From the day you disappeared, until now."

I lowered my head and remained silent for a long time.

I turned my hand over and interlaced my fingers with his.

"Then wait a little longer," I said, my voice very soft. "I'm almost walking out of this."

His heart skipped a beat.

This was the first time I had ever said something like that.

It wasn't "go back," it wasn't "I can't get past it." It was "I'm almost walking out of this."

He squeezed my hand. "I'll wait."

The streetlights outside cast our shadows onto the wall, huddled together.

The night in Bergen is long, but dawn always comes.

The next afternoon, he went out for a long time.

I stayed home alone and rearranged the books on the bookshelf.

I lined up the medical books by subject and the novels by the authors' surnames.

I picked up that photo, looked at it, and put it back in its original place.

The two people in the photo were smiling foolishly; I was leaning on his shoulder, and he was holding my waist.

At that time, I was twenty-one, and I felt like the luckiest person in the world.

I don't know how much time had passed, when the door opened.

He walked in, carrying a paper bag.

His coat was dotted with raindrops, and his hair was a bit damp.

It was raining outside again; the rain in Bergen is always like this, arriving without notice.

"Where did you go?" I asked.

"To pick up a package." He placed the paper bag on the table and took something out of it.

A scarf. Red, cashmere, with fringed edges.

I was stunned.

"You used to love wearing this scarf," he said. "You said red makes your skin look fair."

I took it, my fingers slowly tracing the texture of the scarf.

The cashmere was soft, warm against my skin. It was almost exactly the same as the one he had given me in college.

I turned to a corner of the scarf and froze when I saw the loose thread—it was the one!

I recognized it. I had accidentally snagged it while reading in the library.

"Where did you find it?"

"You left it at the hotel when you moved out. The front desk kept it. I had someone mail it to me from home."