Silence spread through the study, like the morning mist, slowly enveloping the entire space.

I unconsciously raised my hand, my fingertips touching the wall of the celadon cup on the corner of the table. The icy touch crept up my fingertips, and I was startled to realize that I was already feeling a chill.

Perhaps it was because I had stayed in the cemetery for too long and was chilled by the autumn wind; or perhaps it was the emptiness in my heart that had already cooled my body temperature.

I picked up my teacup and gently raised it towards Xin Ziming, my voice still a little hoarse: "Thank you."

The warm tea glided over my dry throat, carrying the unique, refreshing aroma of Longjing tea.

The lingering sweetness slowly spreads up from the tip of the tongue, like spring rain, gently moistening the parched fields.

A warm feeling began to spread from my stomach, flowing through my veins to every part of my body, even dispelling some of the chill in my knuckles.

The languor I had just forced myself to maintain had unknowingly turned into genuine relaxation.

I leaned back on the sofa and watched the moonlight outside the window filter through the bamboo blinds, casting dappled shadows on the floor.

It's like someone scattered a handful of crumpled silver foil; when the wind blows, the shadows sway gently, as if dancing a silent dance.

The wind chimes on the eaves rang again, this time carrying a hint of osmanthus fragrance from the garden downstairs—the wind must have carried the scent up.

The aroma of tea mingled with the tea in the cup filled the entire room, making even the air feel sweet.

I suddenly felt that perhaps it wouldn't matter if the answers were revealed a little later.

At least for now, the tranquility of this room, the still-warm cup of tea, and the breeze carrying the scent of osmanthus allow me to temporarily stop struggling with myself.

No longer do I need to stare at the empty living room and think, "If Qianluo were still here, what would she say?"

No more getting caught up in those questions and getting stuck in a rut, no more crying and trembling in the middle of the night while clutching the old scarf left behind by Qianluo.

Consider it a stolen moment of respite.

I gently closed my eyes, slowing my breathing, the aroma of tea and osmanthus lingering around my nose.

In a daze, I felt as if Qianluo was also in this room, sitting next to me, quietly keeping me company as before.

Xin Ziming simply watched me quietly, her fingertips repeatedly rubbing against the cool handle of the celadon cup, her fingertips tracing the fine, thread-like cracks on the cup's surface.

The pattern resembled the handwriting Qianluo left on the old notebook, winding and twisting yet concealing tenderness.

She took a small sip, the tea making a soft sound as it slid down her throat.

The sound was especially clear in the study, where it was so quiet you could hear the rustling of the bamboo curtains being lifted by the wind and the occasional tinkling of the wind chimes on the eaves.

When she put down the cup, her movements were so gentle as if she were afraid of disturbing something; her fingertips lingered on the rim of the cup for two seconds.

But the moment the bottom of the cup touched the mahogany table, it still made a clear, light sound—like a fine needle chilled by autumn, precisely piercing my heart, which had been tense for so long.

The lingering sound circled the corner of the beam twice before slowly dissipating into the air, which was filled with the faint fragrance of Longjing tea and the scent of osmanthus from outside the window, even making the breath feel slightly chilly.

Only after the sound completely disappeared into the silence did she speak, her voice as calm as a pool of water frozen solid in the depths of winter, without a ripple.

But hidden within was a chilling coldness that could seep into one's bones: "Qianluo does not belong to this world."

Or rather, it doesn't belong to any concrete world that can be touched, measured, or confined to the mundane details of daily life.

She's like a gentle breeze, bringing the warmth of spring and the scent of your favorite gardenias as she passes through your life.

Do you remember? Last spring, when you went to the countryside to pick gardenias, she tucked a flower into your hair and said, "A-Yun looks prettier with flowers on than with flowers."

But the wind never stops for anyone, nor does it take root and grow.

The wind's final destination is always the distant, unburdened place; it cannot be grasped or held onto.

I was startled when I heard this, and my fingertips suddenly clenched the hem of my clothes. The wrinkles of the cotton and linen fabric made my palms red and painful, and several red marks were deeply embedded in my flesh.

The marks were like those left by someone pinching you with their fingernails, but they were nothing compared to the sudden tremor in your heart—like someone gripping your heart tightly with an icy hand.

Even breathing was painful and difficult; every breath felt like inhaling tiny ice shards, piercing my lungs with pain.

Qianluo's image flashed uncontrollably before my eyes: she always tilted her head, her eyes curved like crescent moons dipped in honey, and when she spoke, her voice would rise slightly at the end, with a soft, coquettish tone.

The last time we went to the park to feed the pigeons, she was startled by the pigeons flapping their wings and instinctively snuggled into my arms.

Her hair brushed against my neck, carrying a faint lemon scent from the shampoo, and she mumbled, "A-Yun has to protect me."

She also always likes to snatch the vegetables from my bowl, saying, "If A-Yun eats too many vegetables, she'll turn into a little green man."

He turned around and put the biggest piece of meat from his bowl into my hands, his eyes shining like stars as he watched me eat.

But at this moment, these vivid images began to blur little by little as Xin Ziming spoke.

Like a mirror covered by moisture, no matter how much you wipe it, you can't see clearly. Only a hazy light and shadow sway in front of your eyes, making your eyes sore.

She continued, her tone flat, yet it was as if she were recounting a story etched on yellowed old bamboo slips, each word imbued with the dust of time.

Even the air seemed to grow heavier: "I know that these days, you often stare blankly at the off-white scarf that Qianluo left behind late at night."

She knitted that scarf last winter. She even pricked her finger halfway through, and drops of blood dripped onto the yarn. But she just smiled and said, "That way, the scarf will have my scent."

The scarf collar still has oil stains from when she ate hot pot last time. You can't bear to wash it, afraid that you'll lose her scent.

They handled each stack with utmost care, as if they were holding some rare treasure.

My dear reader, there's more to this chapter! Please click the next page to continue reading—even more exciting content awaits!