Finish

Four years later, at Q University Observatory.

An Yi stuffed the last page of her doctoral dissertation into a folder and looked up at the dome—

The fully automatic dome slowly slid open, and the early spring night sky was like glass wiped clean by water, with stars jumping in one by one.

He typed the last line of data on the keyboard with his knuckles, and a prompt appeared on the screen:

[Application to name a new asteroid has been submitted, number: 2025YC → Alias: Y.Cheng]

He took off his glasses, his voice low yet bright, like a voiceover for the starry sky:

"Yu Chen, I've left you hanging in the sky, no longer chasing, no longer waiting—"

You can shine your lights, I'll go my own way, but the night sky will always have a place for you.

He turned the telescope toward the north, as if lighting a lamp for the redhead he hadn't seen for four years.

The same year, the track for the National University Games finals.

Sheng Shuo squatted on the starting blocks, silently tapping his knuckles twice on the ground.

That was the code he set for himself: three steps, that's enough.

The starting gun fired, and he shot out like an arrow ignited by fire within 0.1 seconds.

Ten seconds later, the timer stopped at his best time: 9.97 seconds.

After crossing the finish line, he raised the timer above his head, as if to put a period to the "three steps" he hadn't seen for four years.

Reporters swarmed around him, asking about his goals. He smiled, sweat dripping down his chin.

"Goal? Finish running for yourself, then run towards her—"

Whether she comes back or not, I'll keep running.

But the finish line will always hold her place.

He placed the timer in the center of the track, as if lighting the last white light for "Three Steps," whom he hadn't seen for four years.

The two never made an appointment, yet on the same night, at the same minute—

An Yi pointed the telescope at the northern sky.

Sheng Shuo placed the timer at the finish line.

Simultaneously, the same Weibo post was published—

The lighthouse is lit; return the food to its container.

The accompanying image is:

A screenshot of the starry sky, with a tiny red dot circled, captioned: Y.Cheng;

A photo of a running track, the timer stopped at 9.97 seconds, with the caption: Three steps.

The Weibo post was published, and both of their phones were turned off at the same time.

Like lighting the last white lamp for her, whom I haven't seen for four years:

—You show your lights, I'll go mine.

—But the night sky will always have a place for you.

—The finish line will always have a place for you.

The same night, at the Old Port Apartments.

Yu Chen stood on the balcony, saving a screenshot of the Weibo post to her phone.

His knuckles tightened silently on the screen, but he didn't type a reply.

She looked up at the distant sea—

There, the lighthouse shines, as if drawing a final line to the four-year manhunt.

Her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, yet it shone like the dawn:

"I saw the starry sky in An Yi's place;"

I also saw the finish line of Shengshuo.

Now, I am simply Yu Chen.

She put her phone back in her pocket, turned, and walked into the house.

There, Xiao Wei was heating up cocoa in the kitchen.

Yuanbao and Jinyuan rolled around at his feet.

Like lighting the last white lamp for her, whom I haven't seen for four years:

—The lighthouse is lit; return it to its box.

— Reserve a spot under the stars, reserve a spot at the finish line;

—For the rest of my life, I will only be Yu Chen.

Years later, the Q University Observatory still displays that asteroid—

【2025YC → Y.Cheng】

Every graduation night, An Yi would point his binoculars at the northern sky.

The sound was low yet bright, like a voiceover for the starry sky:

"She can shine her lights, I can go my own way, but the night sky will always have a place for her."

Years later, that timer still remains on the track of the National Universiade.

[9.97 seconds → Three steps]

Every year on the night of the finals, Sheng Shuo would place the timer at the finish line.

The sound was low yet bright, like a soundtrack for a running track:

Whether she comes back or not, I will keep running, but the finish line will always have her place.

And the Old Port Apartments, every year at the lighthouse night—

Yu Chen stood on the balcony, tucking her bright red hair into her baseball cap.

The lighthouse continues to shine, like lighting a final white lamp for the rest of its life, unknown to anyone—

Leave the space, put it back in the box, and that's it.