Eight months.
Eight long, hollow months since Lin Qing Yun walked away.
The seasons had shifted, the world spun on, and Luminar System had soared to heights that even its earliest investors had never dared to imagine. Articles called it the "dark horse of Chinese AI," and business magazines hailed Gu Ze Yan as the new face of the nation's innovation.
Yet in every glossy headline, every triumphant photo, one detail was missing—his smile.
The man who once lit rooms with a few calm words, who charmed reporters with a raised brow, now moved through life like a shadow. He attended meetings, signed contracts, gave speeches. All flawless. All soulless.
At night, when the applause faded and the office lights dimmed, he returned to an apartment that was no longer home.
---
The Empty Bed
He would lie on one side of the bed, staring at the hollow curve where she used to rest. Sometimes, his hand reached unconsciously, brushing the sheet, as though expecting warmth.
Once or twice, half-asleep, he even muttered her name.
"Sunny…"
But only the hum of the city outside answered him.
---
The Tie He Couldn't Wear
Every morning, the ritual haunted him. He stood before the mirror, tie draped around his neck.
His fingers moved automatically—loop, cross, pull. He had tied his own ties for years before her. He knew the motion as well as he knew how to breathe.
But halfway, his breath hitched. Memory intruded—her slim fingers, gentle and precise, tugging the knot close to his collar, patting it flat with a smile.
"Perfect," she would whisper.
Perfect.
Now, the tie felt like a noose. Fury clawed through him. He yanked it loose, tossed it to the floor.
It happened again. And again.
Finally, he stopped trying. The world noticed. The press called it his "new signature look," the tieless CEO. They praised his modern rebellion.
If only they knew—it wasn't rebellion. It was mourning.
---
Luminar's Rise, His Hollow Center
Under his relentless hand, Luminar expanded to every corner of the country. The board admired him. Investors adored him. The team followed him.
But Su Shen Qiao saw it—how his office grew colder by the day. Chen Rui saw it too—how the faint humor in his boss's eyes had died.
Sometimes, when Ze Yan thought no one was watching, his gaze would drift to the empty chair near his desk—the place where Qing Yun once sat with tea or snacks, her presence softening even the hardest nights.
---
The Unexpected Call
It was a gray afternoon in January when his phone rang. An unknown number.
He ignored it.
It rang again. Persistent. Relentless. He pressed accept, irritation sharp on his tongue.
But before he could speak, a woman's voice rushed in—warm, hurried, familiar.
"Mr. Gu? It's me—Auntie Zhu, from Qing Yun's old neighborhood. Do you remember me?"
The pen slipped from his fingers. His chest tightened. "…Yes. I remember."
She sounded almost breathless. "I finally found the paper where I wrote your number. You told me, if I ever saw Qing Yun again, I must call you. So I'm calling now."
The room spun. His pulse thundered. His lips parted but no words came.
"I saw her this noon," Auntie Zhu continued. "She came back here, asked us about her mother. Some of the aunties remembered—her mother once said she got a job in Lingjiang, at a hotel there. Qing Yun was looking for that."
Lingjiang.
The syllables dropped like stones into his chest.
---
The Thread of Hope
His voice was hoarse. "Is she still there? At the apartments?"
Auntie Zhu sighed. "No. By the time I found your number, she had already gone. But I am sure, Mr. Gu—she must be going to Lingjiang."
For a long moment, silence filled the line.
Gu Ze Yan sat frozen in his office chair, breath shallow, staring at nothing. He could hear the faint hum of computers, the muffled voices of staff in the corridor—but they seemed oceans away.
Qing Yun.
She had been here. Alive, moving, searching.
Eight months of chasing shadows, of waking to emptiness—and now, a direction.
At last, a direction.
---
His Resolve
He closed his eyes, pressing his hand against them until sparks of light danced. His chest hurt, as though too much blood had rushed to his heart.
"Thank you," he managed finally. His voice trembled, but steadied. "Thank you for telling me."
They exchanged a few more words—polite, trembling with unspoken weight. Then the call ended.
Ze Yan sat still for a heartbeat, two, three.
Then he rose.
The chair scraped. Papers fluttered. His reflection in the office window stared back—pale, sharp, weary. A man hollowed by grief, yet burning with new purpose.
Lingjiang.
He whispered her name like a vow.
"Sunny… wait for me."
---
That night, Liangcheng glowed with neon and traffic, but Gu Ze Yan drove through it like a storm. The city blurred into streaks of light.
For months, he had drowned in longing, paralyzed by not knowing. Now, at last, there was a thread to follow.
It might be fragile. It might break. But he would chase it to the very edge of the world if he had to.
Because somewhere, beneath the same sky, Lin Qing Yun still existed.
And until he found her, nothing else mattered.