renew

The first anniversary of Zhou Yu’s death was a rainy spring day.

I didn't go to the cemetery. I knew he didn't like that kind of place; it was too formal, too lonely. Instead, I took a simple bouquet of white lisianthus—his first gift to me, and my favorite flower—and headed to the hill behind our high school.

The rain fell in dense, gray silence, shrouding the world. The grass on the hillside was damp, drenched in glistening water droplets. The distant city skyline was blurred in the mist.

I held a black umbrella, standing in the familiar spot where we had sat side by side countless times. The raindrops pattered against the umbrella, making a monotonous, hypnotic sound. The air was filled with the fresh scent of earth and plants, and a chill that penetrated my bones.

I put the flowers down and stood for a long time. I didn't cry, nor did I speak. I just stood there quietly, feeling the dampness and silence of the rainy day, feeling the huge, unfillable hole in my heart.

A year. Three hundred and sixty-five days and nights. Time didn't heal everything as people say it would. It simply ground the sharp pain into a dull, ubiquitous ache that persisted like a background melody.

I stood there until my legs and feet felt numb, then I turned and left. The soles of my shoes were covered in wet mud, and each step felt heavy.

---

Back in the empty studio, my wet coat was casually thrown on the sofa. The rain was still falling, beating against the glass windows, leaving winding water marks.

I somehow unearthed that old box. Inside was everything related to Zhou Yu: a thick stack of subway tickets from both schools, movie tickets, the few notes he'd written to me (written in a sloppy hand, mostly "See you at what time" or "Usual place"), our photo booth photos together, the notebook he'd left behind, filled with financial notes but later filled with my doodles, and the hand-drawn card of the "Queen of Finance" he'd drawn to cheer me up.

At the very bottom, there was a brown paper bag. I opened it and my breath hitched slightly.

Inside were various medical reports, diagnoses, expense lists, and... a letter.

The envelope was ordinary white, with the handwriting on it written in Zhou Yu's handwriting, which had become a little trembling due to his weakness in his later years, but he still tried hard to keep it neat: "To Chenzhi".

My heartbeat suddenly went haywire. With trembling fingers, I pulled out the letter.

The letter is not long.

"Chen Zhi:

If you see this letter, it means my worst fear has finally come true. I'm sorry, but I'm leaving you alone.

Don't cry. (Although I know you're definitely crying again.) And don't blame me for being so focused on work during those last few days that I neglected you. I just... had so little time, and so many things I wanted to do for you.

What I've left you is probably enough for you to indulge in your own capriciousness for several lifetimes. Don't be stingy. Draw whatever you want, and don't draw when you don't want to. Do all the things you've always wanted to do but never had the chance to do. I want you to be free, freer than anyone else in this world.

Assistant Lin will help you with the foundation. I know you'll blame me for being so self-willed as to even come up with a name, but I think you'll understand 'Expired Spring'.

Chenzhi, I know spring will expire. But I never regret meeting you that September. You were the only irrational investment in my routine, calculated life, yet also the most correct and highest-returning one.

It’s a pity that I can’t accompany you further.

Don't keep thinking about me. But remember to live well, including my share.

Eat well, put on more clothes when it’s cold, and don’t stay up late painting.

Love you forever.

Zhou Yu

Tears suddenly burst forth, blurring my vision. The letter trembled in my hands, the words blurred by tears, like the rain-soaked world outside the window.

I seemed to see him struggling to write these words, word for word, while straining his body against his illness and leaning over the small table beside his hospital bed. I saw how he tried so hard to conceal his pain, how he clumsily tried to arrange everything, and how he expressed the deepest farewell and love in his unique, calm and restrained way.

"Idiot...Zhou Yu, you big idiot..." I cursed with a sob, my chest aching so much that it almost split.

He'd always known. He knew my insecurities, my fears, and that I would resent him. So, in this way, for the last time, he clumsily yet clearly told me: I had never been a burden to him, but rather the most precious "irrational investment" in his life.

The sound of rain gradually fell. I hugged the letter, curled up on the cold floor, and cried for a long, long time, as if I wanted to shed all the tears I had held back over the past year.

---

I cried until I was exhausted, but somehow my emotions calmed down. After a great sadness, there came an indescribable calm.

I carefully put away the letter as if it were the most precious treasure.

Then I stood up and walked back to the easel.

On the canvas, the painting "Path" has taken on a whole new look. The chaotic colors have settled, interweaving into a powerful tranquility. The sadness remains, but it is no longer a hopeless indulgence. Instead, it has transformed into a profound contemplation and questioning of life itself.

I picked up the paintbrush and dipped it in paint.

This time, there is no hesitation or pain in putting pen to paper. The colors flowing across the canvas are no longer an emotional outpouring, but a language, a form of communication, a dialogue that transcends life and death.

I drew the boy at the end of the corridor in my memory, his silhouette in the afternoon sun at the library, the sunset we watched side by side on the hillside, his suit-clad, effortless presence at a business reception, his occasional tired glance, his thin silhouette on the hospital bed and his last gentle smile...

I am not copying memories, but reweaving our time with colors to build an eternal world that belongs only to us.

The rain stopped at some point, the clouds parted, and a ray of golden sunset broke through, shining through the window and onto the canvas, illuminating the vibrant colors.

As bright as new.

I put down my pen and watched quietly.

I know sadness won't go away; it will follow me like a shadow throughout my life. But I'm no longer afraid of it. Like him, it has become a part of me, woven into my very being, my very being, my very breath, every line and every color I paint.

Zhou Yu, in his own way, gave me the freedom to cry and paint.

And now, I choose to use this freedom to remember, to continue, and to love.

The sky outside the window is completely clear, and the world washed by rain is fresh and bright. Another spring is about to pass.

But I know that some things never expire.