The car moved steadily along the streets of Lingjiang, wipers swiping rhythmically against a fine drizzle. The cityscape here was different from Liangcheng or Guangjing—less glossy, more subdued, with a kind of grayness that seemed to have soaked into the walls of the older buildings.
Qing Yun sat by the window, her posture straight, her gaze unfixed. Outside, neon signs flickered faintly even in daylight, pedestrians hunched into their coats against the damp cold. The world moved, but she remained still, as though sealed inside her own glass case.
Beside her, Xu Wei Ran glanced at her reflection in the window. She looked calm—calm in the way that stone could be calm, untouched by rain or wind, but also unable to breathe. For a moment, his heart ached with a familiar pang.
This was the Qing Yun he remembered: elegant, composed, her silence heavier than words. But the warmth he used to find in her calm had changed. Now, it looked like exhaustion carved into her bones.
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, careful not to let the heaviness show in his gaze.
---
Eight months ago, when she appeared at the Guangjing airport, she carried only one bag. A plain suitcase, a coat too thin for the northern cold, and a smile that did not belong to her eyes.
She had called him—after years of silence, after everything—her voice quiet but steady. "Wei Ran, can I… come to you?"
He hadn't asked why. He had simply bought her a ticket and waited at the gate.
He still remembered how small she looked in the crowd, walking toward him like someone who had burned all her bridges. For a second, he thought she might vanish before reaching him.
"Qing Yun." His voice had trembled, though he disguised it with his usual calmness.
She nodded, as if greeting an acquaintance, not someone who once carried her heart in his chest.
That night, he cooked her noodles—simple broth with egg and scallion. She ate quietly, thanking him politely. Then she retreated into the guest room and closed the door.
From then on, life settled into an odd rhythm.
She never laughed, though sometimes she smiled faintly at his clumsy jokes. She never cried, though sometimes he woke to the sound of her tossing restlessly, whispering Si Yao's name in her sleep. She kept his apartment spotless, as if repaying him with silence and order.
There were evenings when he returned from filming or recording and found her sitting by the window, a book open but unread, staring out at the city lights as though searching for someone who would never come.
Wei Ran never asked her about Gu Ze Yan. He never asked why she left, or why her eyes were so empty. He was afraid that if he opened that door, she would disappear again.
And so he cherished even her quiet presence, like a starving man cherishing crumbs.
---
Now, in the car, Qing Yun held the slip of paper Wei Ran had received from the hotel manager. Her fingers pressed lightly against the address written there.
Mother.
Once, that word had meant home. Later, it meant debt collectors, slammed doors, and whispered curses. And finally, it meant silence.
After Si Yao's death, the word became unbearable. It was her mother's debts that had brought the wolves to their door. It was those men who had taken Si Yao's life. For a long time, Qing Yun had imagined confronting Lin Hui Zhen, screaming at her, asking how she could still call herself a mother.
But anger was like fire: it burned bright and hot at first, then turned to ash.
Eight months later, what remained was not rage but a hollow need for closure. She wanted her mother to know—Si Yao was gone. To see whether Lin Hui Zhen's heart would break or whether it had turned to stone long ago.
Perhaps she wanted revenge, once. Now she only wanted the truth, even if it was cruel.
---
Wei Ran shifted slightly, watching her.
She looked so composed, gazing at the blurred city through the window. To anyone else, she would seem unshakable—serene, even. But Wei Ran knew better.
He had studied this face since they were children. He knew when her silence was strength and when it was despair.
Now, it was both.
She had returned to being the Lin Qing Yun he had always known—not the "Sunny" the world adored, but the quiet girl who carried storms inside her. He should have been relieved. Instead, he was afraid.
Afraid because he knew her kindness too well. She would endure every wound without complaint, forgive those who least deserved it, and bury her own pain so no one else would suffer.
He wanted to tell her: Qing Yun, you don't have to forgive. You don't have to carry everything alone. Let someone hold you.
But he swallowed the words. He had loved her too long to cage her now.
---
Flashback — Almost Confession
One evening in Guangjing, during those eight months, he had almost said it.
She had cooked for him—simple stir-fry, rice, and soup. After dinner, she washed the dishes while he dried them. Their hands brushed over a porcelain bowl, and she looked up at him with that faint, tired smile.
The words had surged up his throat: Stay with me. Let me take care of you. I don't need anything else.
But then she had turned back to the sink, humming softly, and he realized—her heart was elsewhere.
So he had only said, "Thank you," and let the silence carry the weight of what he could not.
---
Present — Lingjiang Streets
The car slowed. Outside, the buildings grew humbler, the glass towers of downtown giving way to weathered apartments and narrow lanes. Laundry hung from balconies despite the drizzle, and the smell of fried dough wafted faintly from a corner stall.
Wei Ran straightened, slipping the paper with the address into his pocket.
He looked at her. She hadn't moved, her gaze still fixed outside.
"Qing Yun," he said softly.
She turned, her eyes clear, calm.
"Are you ready?"
Her lips curved faintly, almost a smile, but not quite. "I've been ready for eight months."
Wei Ran's throat tightened.
He nodded. "Then let's go."