Chapter 45

On Saturday morning, the fog was so thick that it seemed to envelop the whole world in damp, cold cotton wool.

Jiang Ci stood in front of the mirror, his fingers stiffly buttoning each button of his shirt. A light gray shirt, black trousers—this was the first time in three years that he hadn't faced everything related to Tang Li with complete black attire.

Gray is the color of a rainy day, and also the color of the sky before dawn. It is about facing reality, not mourning.

Xie Qingyan waited for him at the villa entrance, carrying a simple paper bag. Inside were several things Jiang Ci had prepared: an astronomical almanac that Tang Li had given him years ago, filled with annotations; an old photo album covered with silly photos of the two of them from junior high school; and a thick diary that recorded his three years of self-inflicted, agonizing repentance.

"Let's go." Jiang Ci tried to keep his voice calm, but Xie Qingyan saw the tense curve of his neck as he swallowed.

The taxi drove towards the high-speed rail station. The city outside the window receded in the thick fog, like a pencil drawing blurred by water. The carriage was silent, with only the low hum of the engine and occasional radio static.

"Tang Li's parents," Xie Qingyan said softly, breaking the silence as if confirming something, "Wen Heng said they are very reasonable people."

“I know.” Jiang Ci’s gaze fell on the blurry street scene outside the window. “Tang Li loves to laugh, just like his mother. His father is a professor of theoretical physics. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s all about logic and evidence.”

He paused for a long time, so long that Xie Qingyan thought he wouldn't speak again, before his voice finally broke into a low tone:

"After they moved away, Aunt Tang was depressed for a long time. Uncle Tang resigned from his position as department head. I took everything away from them."

The last few words were as light as a sigh, yet so heavy that they seemed to freeze the air in the carriage.

Xie Qingyan grasped his cold hand, without saying, "It's not your fault." At this moment, any words seemed inadequate. He simply squeezed tighter, conveying the faint but unwavering warmth of his palm.

——

As the high-speed train arrived in the neighboring city, a light drizzle began to fall, casting a melancholic veil over the unfamiliar city. The two agreed to meet at the high-speed train station.

Tang Li's home is in an old but tidy professor's community. The withered ivy on the red brick wall turns dark brown in the rain, while the chrysanthemums in front of the unit entrance bloom stubbornly.

Jiang Ci stood in front of the peeling paint on the apartment door, took three deep breaths, his chest heaving, as if gathering the courage to face a trial of his soul. Then, he pressed the doorbell.

The person who opened the door was Tang Li's father.

Time had left its deep mark on him. His temples were completely white, and his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses, which once held the keenness of a scholar, now bore a heavy weariness and a restrained mix of emotions. He wore a faded gray sweater, and when he saw Jiang Ci, his gaze shifted several times—pain, scrutiny, reminiscence—ultimately culminating in a barely audible sigh.

"You're here." He turned to the side, his voice a little hoarse. "Come in."

The living room was spacious and bright, yet filled with a sense of empty loneliness. An entire wall of bookshelves was crammed with physics monographs and astronomical charts, silently telling the story of its owner's world. By the window, a telescope covered with a dust cloth stood quietly, like a sealed-away old dream.

Tang Li's mother came out of the kitchen. She was much thinner than Jiang Ci remembered, her eyes were red, but she tried to give him a gentle smile that belonged to the past: "Xiao Ci, you must have had a hard journey."

The word "Xiao Ci" sent a barely perceptible jolt through Jiang Ci's body, and her eyes instantly stung with tears.

"Uncle Tang, Auntie." He bowed deeply, his waist bent low, his voice hoarse, "I'm sorry... I... I'm late."

"Have a seat," Professor Tang said, gesturing to the sofa.

The three sat down, the air so heavy it seemed you could wring water out of it. The only background noise was the pattering of rain outside the window.

Aunt Tang's gaze never left Jiang Ci's face, tears silently welling up and then quietly sliding down her cheeks: "Xiao Ci, you... have lost so much weight."

With just this one word of concern, Jiang Ci's psychological defenses, built up over three years, began to crumble violently. He lowered his head, his fingers digging tightly into his knees until his knuckles turned white.

“Uncle, Aunt,” he began, his voice trembling as he tried to suppress his emotions, “I’m here today to admit my mistakes and apologize. For Tang Li, for failing to protect him, and for my cowardly running away for the past three years.”

He held the thick diary up with both hands and handed it to Professor Tang, like a prisoner presenting his indictment:

“For the past three years, I have written every day. I write about my guilt, about my dreams of him, about my countless imaginings of what it would be like to go back to the past. I dare not ask for your forgiveness, but I must let you know that I have never forgotten him for a moment, nor have I stopped punishing myself for a moment.”

Professor Tang took the diary; the cover was slightly shiny from being rubbed. He didn't open it immediately, but instead slowly ran his fingertip along the edge, then took off his glasses and pressed hard on his brow, as if trying to resist some surging emotion.

“Jiang Ci,” he put his glasses back on, his gaze looking straight at Jiang Ci through the lenses. There was no anger or resentment in his eyes, but a deep clarity mixed with pain. “Do you know what has been the most painful thing for my aunt and me these past three years?”

Jiang Ci shook his head blankly, tears welling up in his eyes.

“It’s not that we’ve lost Tang Li,” Professor Tang’s voice was low, but each word was clear, striking the silent air. “It’s that we don’t know why he left.”

Aunt Tang covered her mouth, letting out a sob, and took over the conversation, every word laced with tears: "We don't know what he went through in his final days, we don't know where those overwhelming rumors came from, or how much of them are true. The school was vague, saying it was a psychological problem. When we asked his classmates, they all avoided us. We even... we even started to doubt whether we had ever truly understood our son."

Her gaze locked onto Jiang Ci, tears streaming down her face: "Xiao Ci, you were his best friend. During his last period, he only contacted you. But even you disappeared. We don't even have anyone to ask."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." Jiang Ci finally broke down, sliding off the sofa and kneeling on the cold floor. His forehead pressed against the floor, and the pain, fear, and guilt that had been suppressed for three years burst forth like a dam breaking, turning into a hoarse, almost suffocating sob. It wasn't crying; it was the lament of a soul being torn apart.

The father, who had lost his son, had tears in his eyes, and his voice was choked with emotion but firm:

"Cry. You've held back these tears for three years. It's time to let them fall."

In the living room, only Jiang Ci's broken and desperate cries echoed and mingled with the endless rain outside the window, like a mourning ceremony that was three years overdue.

After a long while, the crying gradually weakened, turning into suppressed, intermittent sobs.

Professor Tang helped him up, handed him a tissue, and then did something that Jiang Ci didn't expect.

He rose and went into the study, emerging a moment later with a thin, slightly worn, light blue envelope. There was no stamp on the envelope, only a few simple words written in Tang Li's neat and strong handwriting:

[To Mom and Dad, if you ever see this letter—]

The moment Aunt Tang saw the envelope, she covered her mouth tightly and let out a whimper like a small animal.

Professor Tang's fingers trembled slightly as he carefully opened the envelope and took out a slightly yellowed sheet of paper. He took a deep breath and slowly read aloud, his voice hoarse yet clear, as if trying to imprint each word into the air:

Mom and Dad:

If you are reading this letter, it means my worst fears have come true. I'm sorry, I'm leaving this way.

Please don't blame anyone, especially Jiang Ci. He's innocent. Those chat logs were fabricated; Chen Jingming framed him. I'm speaking out because I know the truth.

But I never imagined that telling the truth would come at such a high price. Every day when I open my phone, it's flooded with insults. They're cursing me, cursing my parents. I can't take it anymore.

Mom and Dad, I love you. I will become a star in heaven and watch over you.

Finally—Jiang Ci, if you see this letter, live well. See the starry sky you didn't finish seeing for me.

Tang Li

The letter slipped from Professor Tang's hand and fluttered onto the coffee table.

Aunt Tang rushed over, clutching the letter tightly to her chest as if trying to press it into her heart, and finally burst into tears. Her sobs contained a long-suppressed grief, a sense of relief, and heartbreak over the loneliness and courage she felt for her son in his final moments.

Jiang Ci stared blankly at the letter, his soul seemingly ripped out, forgetting even to shed tears. So… so Tang Li had foreseen the worst, even writing this “last will and testament” beforehand. So, at the end of his life, he wasn’t thinking of resentment, but of clearing his friend’s name, of reassuring his parents not to blame him, and of entrusting his wish to see the stars to him.

"This letter..." Jiang Ci asked hoarsely, his voice so soft it was as if he were afraid of disturbing something, "Where...was it found?"

“Deep inside an encrypted folder on Tang Li’s personal computer.” Professor Tang’s voice was old and tired, yet carried a calm that seemed to have settled down. “We tried the password for a long time and only cracked it last week. The password he used was your birthday.”

Jiang Ci closed her eyes, and scalding tears welled up again. This time, they were for Tang Li's clumsy yet pure friendship, which remained unchanged until death.

The rain had stopped sometime earlier. A thin sliver of the setting sun pierced through the clouds, struggling to squeeze into the living room and casting a hazy golden glow on the wooden floor.

Professor Tang helped his wife, who was almost paralyzed, to her feet. The two supported each other as they looked at Jiang Ci, who had finally stopped crying but seemed to have been completely drained.

“Xiao Ci,” Professor Tang began, his voice unusually gentle yet firm, “raise your head.”

Jiang Ci raised her face, which was streaked with tears and as pale as paper.

“These past two years,” Professor Tang said frankly, each word clear and solemn, “my aunt and I have resented you. We couldn’t understand why you were still alive when Tang Li was gone? Why didn’t you stand up and explain? Why did you disappear, leaving us without even a window to seek the truth?”

He paused, as if to give these words the weight they deserved, and then, with a change of tone, the heavy shackles were quietly removed:

"But after seeing this letter and the diary you brought, we understand."

Aunt Tang walked up to Jiang Ci and, just as she often did for Tang Li two years ago, reached out and gently stroked his hair. This simple gesture contained a thousand words.

“Child,” her voice trembled, yet carried the unique gentle strength of a mother, “Tang Li doesn’t blame you. Neither do we.”

Jiang Ci shuddered violently, looked up abruptly, his eyes filled with an unbelievable mix of vulnerability and hope.

“You and Tang Li are both victims.” Professor Tang’s voice was as steady as a mountain, delivering the final judgment. “What killed Tang Li were the malice of those who fabricated rumors, the blind followers and onlookers, and everyone who easily raised the sword of morality before the truth was clear. You do not need to, and should not, bear the shackles of their sins for the rest of your life.”

He helped Jiang Ci up and made him sit up again, his gaze piercing:

"Xiao Ci, your aunt and I only have one request for you now—"

Jiang Ci held her breath, her heart pounding.

"Live well." Professor Tang said each word slowly and deliberately, "Live well, including the part that Tang Li didn't get to finish. See the stars he never saw, walk the paths he never finished, and love this world that he once loved so much but ultimately had to leave."

Aunt Tang held Jiang Ci's cold hand, gently passing on warmth: "This is Xiao Li's last wish. Don't let him down, okay?"

Jiang Ci's lips trembled violently, all the words stuck in his throat, turning into a scalding torrent that rushed to his eyes. He could only nod forcefully and desperately, large tears falling onto their clasped hands, like ice that had been accumulating for too long finally melting.

As he was leaving, Professor Tang called Jiang Ci back again. He took out a well-preserved wooden box from his study.

"This was found while sorting through Tang Li's belongings. He marked it as being for you." Professor Tang handed the box to Jiang Ci. "We've kept it safe, thinking that one day we would give it to you."

Jiang Ci opened the box with trembling hands.

Inside is a finely crafted brass astronomical telescope model, about the size of a palm, with an extendable tube and a line of clear small characters engraved on the base:

[To Jiang Ci: Our journey is to the stars and the sea. — Tang Li, June 1, 2019]

There is also a thick hardcover notebook with a cover featuring a hand-drawn starry sky by Tang Li, titled: "Observation Record: The Starry Sky Shared with Jiang Ci and Wen Heng (2016-2020)".

Jiang Ci gently opened the book. Inside were Tang Li's meticulously written, almost obsessive-compulsive, handwriting, detailing every meteor shower they stayed up all night watching from junior high to high school, every planetary opposition they excitedly observed, and every exclamation they uttered at unusual celestial phenomena. Each page was accompanied by a star chart he had drawn himself, with clean and crisp lines. In the corners of many pages, there were also little cartoons he had casually drawn, full of life—Jiang Ci was seriously adjusting the focus with a straight face, Wen Heng was frantically taking notes while wearing glasses, and Jiang Ci himself was making exaggerated faces or "feeding" Wen Heng snacks.

The record abruptly ended in October two years ago.

But in the blank space of the last page, there is a newly added line of penmanship, the ink still fresh, the strokes steady and firm—it is Professor Tang's handwriting:

[Xiao Ci, the starry sky is still there. Xiao Li is still there.]

He became a star, but he hopes you will be the light that illuminates others.

Jiang Ci held the wooden box as if it were the last and most precious warmth left behind by Tang Li. He faced Tang Li's parents and bowed deeply, almost to the point of prostration, remaining motionless for a long time. In this bow, there was confession, gratitude, and above all, the solemnity of accepting their entrustment.

The high-speed train sped along on the return journey, the night outside the window was as dark as ink, with occasional stray lights flashing by like falling stars.

Jiang Ci held the wooden box tightly, his fingertips gently stroking the cool metal surface of the telescope model. His gaze was fixed on the deep darkness outside the window, yet it seemed to pierce through the darkness and look towards a more distant place.

Xie Qingyan quietly stayed by her side, not disturbing this silent process of digestion and reconstruction.

As they approached the station, Jiang Ci suddenly turned her head. Her eyes were still slightly red, but the heavy gloom that had shrouded her eyes for three years seemed to have been torn open, and something clear and resilient, a mixture of sadness and new life, was growing out of the crack.

"Xie Qingyan."

"Um?"

“Uncle Tang said that Tang Li hopes I will become the light.” Jiang Ci’s voice was still hoarse, but unusually calm, carrying the weight of thought. “But I feel that light is too far away and too bright. I don’t think I can become like that.”

He paused, his gaze falling on Xie Qingyan's face. Those eyes, always so clear, now reflected the warm glow of the carriage's overhead light.

"But you can."

Xie Qingyan was slightly taken aback.

“You can be my mirror,” Jiang Ci said softly, the corners of her mouth even twitching slightly. It wasn’t a smile, but it was more touching than a smile. “A mirror doesn’t need to burn itself. It only needs to honestly reflect light. And in your eyes, there has always been light.”

Xie Qingyan's heart felt as if it had been gently and precisely struck by those words, leaving it utterly tender and weak. He reached out and placed his hand over Jiang Ci's hand, which was holding the box, and gripped it tightly.

"Okay. Then let's be each other's mirror and each other's light."

As the high-speed train slowly pulled into the station, the city lights outside the window merged into a warm and vast galaxy, flowing and surging.

Jiang Ci took a deep breath, the air penetrating his lungs, as if completely dispelling the pent-up emotions of the past three years. He stood up, holding the wooden box, his back straight.

"Let's go. Let's go back."