Chapter 28

The new semester has begun.

The campus was once again filled with a bustling crowd, freshmen filled with bewilderment and anticipation, while upperclassmen shared their holiday experiences. Everything was brimming with a fresh, forward-moving energy. Only Lü Xiaoyan, like a grain of sand left behind in the old days, stood out out of place in the vibrant atmosphere around her.

He returned to the classroom, sat in his familiar seat, but the room beside him was empty. The professor lectured eloquently on the podium, but all he could see outside the window was the sycamore tree where she had once caught fallen leaves, its leaves now turning yellow again.

He went to the library, opened the book, but the handwriting was blurry, as if every page reflected her quiet profile as she lay asleep beside him, her nose twitching slightly.

He walked along the lake. The sunset was still magnificent, but the bench seemed to still hold the warmth of their bodies as they sat side by side, and the joyful sound of her pointing at the sunset.

The most agonizing part is the darkroom.

He would still go there, as if fulfilling some inescapable addiction. He no longer developed new photos, but repeatedly, over and over again, arranged the framed images of her. The red safety light and the pervasive smell of chemicals in the air became switches that triggered hallucinations.

Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she would catch a glimpse of a shadow flashing by the door, just like she used to do, peeking in with a sly smile and asking, "Senior, may I come in?"

He turned his head sharply, but there was only empty darkness at the doorway.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments while waiting for the development to complete, he could almost hear the slight creaking of the high stool behind him, and the soft rustling of the pages as she turned the pages of a photography magazine.

He held his breath, afraid to move, lest he disturb this moment of "companionship." It wasn't until the piercing ring of the timer pulled him back to reality that he realized there was no one behind him, only the cold equipment and his lonely shadow cast on the wall.

The clearest one was in the middle of the night.

Unable to sleep, he went to the darkroom again. No lights were on; only moonlight streamed in from the high window, casting cold, patchy shadows on the floor. He leaned wearily against the chair and closed his dry eyes.

Then he heard it.

The creaking sound of the darkroom door being pushed open was extremely clear.

Light, familiar footsteps.

You can even smell that faint, fresh scent of sunshine and grass that belongs to her, coming from afar.

He felt a figure stop in front of him, with a warm, real presence. He could even "see" her wearing her usual light blue sweatshirt, tilting her head slightly, looking at him with concern, and whispering:

"Senior, why are you staying up so late again? Your dark circles are so bad."

Her voice was so genuine, carrying a soft reproach and heartache.

Lu Xiaoyan's heart almost stopped beating at that moment. He dared not open his eyes, fearing that if he did, this luxurious illusion would shatter like a bubble.

He responded with all his might in his heart:

"Ya Yu...you're back..."

"I miss you so much……"

"Don't go...please..."

He cried out and begged silently in his heart.

However, the next second, a piercing car horn sounded outside the window, abruptly waking him from his brief reverie.

He suddenly opened his eyes.

The darkroom was empty. Only moonlight, dust, and his own heavy, lonely breathing.

Where is the sound of a door being pushed open, footsteps, or any breath?

Where are the concerned greetings?

There was nothing there.

There was only boundless, deathly silent, suffocating emptiness.

A profound sense of loss and despair poured over him like ice water, leaving him feeling cold and trembling uncontrollably. He raised his hand and pressed hard against his throbbing temples, his nails almost digging into his skin.

He knew he was sick.

His reason clearly told him that she was gone, gone forever. But his senses, his subconscious, refused to accept this fact, stubbornly reserving a place for her in every familiar scene, weaving the illusion that she was still there.

These hallucinations were like torture inflicted on him by his brain. They offered him a moment of false comfort, then mercilessly withdrew it, plunging him back into an even deeper, colder abyss of reality.

He slowly stood up, walked to the workbench, and picked up the photograph titled "How Autumn Lives." In the photo, she smiled serenely, her eyes clear, as if she might step out of the picture at any moment.

He used his fingertips to futilely trace the area of ​​her cheek on the photograph paper again and again.

Cold and smooth.

There is no temperature.

Just like her, it's impossible to... ever warm up again.

He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against the cold photographic paper, like a body whose soul had been completely removed, frozen in the eternal red solitude of the darkroom.

Outside the window, true autumn has arrived.