The person in front of me is beautiful, but it's a beauty that carries a strong sense of detachment.

Her brow bone was so sharp and clear, as if it had been meticulously carved by a jade carver from Jiangnan, with clean and smooth lines.

His nose bridge was straight, and the tip of his nose was slightly downturned, with a stubborn curve.

Her lips were pressed into a sharp arc, without any excess softness, yet without appearing harsh.

I recognize this face so well—it's Xin Zimo, the young actress who became a sensation last year with a travel live-streaming variety show called "Right Now, Head to the Distance!"

In the show, she always wore a durable windbreaker, with her hair tied in a high ponytail. Her bangs were blown around by the wind, but it didn't affect her neatness at all.

Facing a rock face with a near 90-degree incline, she fastened a safety rope and began to climb, her movements even more steady than those of the guide accompanying her.

When she encountered a burly foreign man harassing a female guest, she didn't hesitate at all. She dodged his hand to the side and then delivered a spinning kick, her movements so fast that they were just afterimages.

When the other person staggered and fell to the ground, she didn't even catch her breath. She only glanced at him indifferently, and the coldness in her eyes was definitely not something an ordinary actor could achieve in a few months of training.

Later, some people discovered that she had practiced martial arts and combat since childhood, but netizens always said that she learned it specifically for the show.

But I remember that when she kicked the strong man, the angle of her wrist rotation was exactly like the self-defense technique that Qianluo taught me.

But at this moment, she had removed her makeup, and her face lacked the exquisite makeup she wore on camera, revealing only a faint skin tone.

She wore a plain white cotton-linen shirt, with the top two buttons loosely fastened at the collar, revealing a hint of her collarbone.

She wore light gray casual pants and white sneakers. There were no eye-catching accessories on her body, and her plain face stood out even more in the twilight.

She lacks the vibrancy and exuberance of her on-camera persona, and her eyes and brows exude a calmer quality, even the curve of her jawline has softened.

The wisps of hair on her forehead were blown by the wind and clung to her cheeks, making her even more striking than on the screen—that unadorned coolness was like the moon in the mountains.

Looking at it from a distance, I felt I shouldn't get close.

But I had no interest in appreciating it at all.

This is a special martyrs' cemetery, where martyrs with special identities, like Qianluo, are laid to rest.

Their names are mostly kept secret, and even their tombstones are all the same style, with only a badge representing their identity embedded at the top.

Those who are not relatives or employees of related units are not even allowed to enter the gate.

Grandpa Zhang has been guarding the entrance for over a decade. His registration system is even stricter than the criminal investigation team's archives. Everyone who comes in has to have their ID checked and explain their purpose.

Sometimes, even people from the municipal bureau have to report to the cemetery management office in advance when they come to pay respects to the former leaders.

How did a moderately famous actress end up here? She's neither a relative nor related to these special martyrs. Did she sneak in with someone?

Not to mention her seemingly random words just now, which were as precise as a key, unlocking the deepest secret in my heart.

About Qianluo, about my forgetting, about those sleepless nights filled with self-doubt.

A sense of vigilance instantly gripped my heart like vines, tightening and tightening until even my breathing became rapid.

I instinctively tensed my back, my fingertips quietly pressing against the tombstone behind me. The cold stone surface seeped into my bones through my fingertips, and the chill calmed my chaotic thoughts a little.

I stared at her, trying to find a trace of panic on her face, but her eyes were too steady, like a deep pool, without the slightest ripple.

"Who are you?" My voice was hoarse from tension, with a barely perceptible tremor at the end.

"This is not a place for you. How did you get in? Where is Grandpa Zhang?"

She stood three steps away from me, not too far, not too close, just the right distance—not too intrusive, yet still loud enough to hear clearly—as if she had planned this spot beforehand.

The evening breeze lifted the hem of her plain-colored shirt, revealing a light gray cotton inner layer underneath. The hem swayed gently in the wind, much like the old shirt that Qianluo used to wear.

Her aloof demeanor was actually tinged with a gentle warmth towards the tombstone—not the politeness one would show to a stranger, but rather a subtle respect, as if she were addressing an old acquaintance.

Even when his gaze fell on the police badge at the top of the tombstone, it softened a bit, as if he were greeting Qianluo.

But she didn't answer my question. She just stood quietly in the twilight, her figure outlined with a faint golden edge by the last bit of daylight.

The edges are somewhat blurred, like an unfinished ink painting, hazy yet clear.

She was clutching a bunch of small white daisies in her hand, the stems still wet with water droplets, clearly freshly picked.

There are many daisies planted in the cemetery, which Grandpa Zhang specially planted last year, saying that it would make the place look lively.

The sound of pine trees in the distance drifted over, carrying a slight chill, breaking the silence between the two. The leaves rustled, as if responding for her, or as if covering something up.

This unexpected encounter, shrouded in the deepening twilight, seemed even more enigmatic, creating a momentary stalemate.

I stood there clutching the hem of my clothes, my knuckles turning bluish-white from the force, my back taut like a fully drawn bow, and I even deliberately held my breath.

What felt like a tense standoff to me was probably nothing more than a speck of dust in the air to her.

She didn't see my stiff shoulder line, didn't detect the wariness in my voice, and didn't even flinch.

The black trench coat swept past me, stirring up a gust of wind that carried the damp scent unique to the cemetery. I walked right past it.

It was as if I were just a silent weed beside a tombstone, not even worthy of distracting her.

The evening breeze, carrying the cool fragrance of pine and cypress, swept by, and as it lifted the hem of her dress, a wisp of crisp, alcoholic aroma wafted over.

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