"Take a picture for me, please." Her voice was damp from the rain. "Just a picture of the sunset."

As Ah Yu took the camera, her fingertips accidentally brushed against the back of her hand. Both of them recoiled as if electrocuted, but then burst into laughter at the moment their eyes met. In the distance, the church bells rang for evening prayers, startling the pigeons under the eaves. Their silhouettes, skimming the sunset, were like countless unspoken longings finally finding their home.

He raised his camera and looked at her through the lens. Zhong Hua stood in the middle of the steps, her trench coat billowing in the wind, raindrops still clinging to her hair, her head tilted slightly upwards towards the sunset. In the viewfinder, her profile was framed with a golden edge, while the edge of the lens perfectly framed his own shadow—just like for the past three years, he had always stood where she could see him or not, a silent backdrop in her landscape.

"Are you ready?" Ah Yu's voice was very soft, afraid of disturbing this moment of tranquility.

Zhong Hua turned around, her gaze passing through the camera lens to land on his face. A gentle smile curved her lips, like prayer flags fluttering in the wind on the Tibetan grasslands. "Alright."

The shutter clicked softly in the twilight, capturing the sunset over Montmartre, the lingering raindrops, the man holding the camera, and the smiling woman in the lens—all locked away in the depths of time. The sweet aroma of hot cocoa wafted from a distant café. As Ah Yu put down her camera, she noticed Zhong Hua standing on tiptoe, gently wiping a raindrop from his cheek with his fingertips.

“Actually, I knew you would come.” Her fingertips, slightly cool and damp, stopped at his jawline. “I knew when we tied the red rope on the snow mountain.”

Ah Yu grasped her wrist; the scar from the mudslide, cut by rubble, had faded to a pale pink. He looked down into her eyes, which held the entire sunset, brighter than any photo in his phone's album. "Then why did you go so far?"

“Because I wanted to see,” Zhong Hua’s eyelashes trembled, her voice as soft as a sigh, “would your scenery be less colorful without me?”

The wind blew through the church's cloisters, carrying the melody of an accordion from afar. Ah Yu took something out of his pocket—a small ginkgo leaf specimen, carefully sealed with transparent tape, though the edges were still somewhat worn—he had picked it up from her hair after the mudslide and then kept it on the bedside table in the ICU for seven whole days.

“Look,” he placed the specimen in her palm, “the scenery would be incomplete without any one of them.”

Zhong Hua gripped the specimen tightly, the veins of the leaf digging into her palm, like some certain answer. When she looked up, she saw the sunset spreading across Ah Yu's hair, stretching their shadows long, intertwining on the wet stone steps, making them indistinguishable from one another.

The distant sky gradually darkened, and the stars began to light up one by one. Ah Yu held Zhong Hua's hand and walked down the mountain. Her camera hung between them, swaying gently with each step. It contained 328 photos, the last one being the sunset over Montmartre. In the frame, two people stood smiling at each other, while the church dome in the background was gently embraced by the twilight.

As Zhong Hua passed by the coffee shop, she suddenly stopped. The television in the window was replaying clips from the truth-revealing press conference. On the screen, she was pale, yet her words were firm and resolute, while in the audience, Ah Yu's hand holding the recorder was as steady as a mountain.

“Actually, that day,” Zhong Hua said, looking at his reflection in the glass window, “what I feared most on stage wasn’t the Gu family’s counterattack, but that I wouldn’t see you when I turned around.”

Ah Yu pushed open the door, and the aroma of coffee wafted out, enveloping the two of them. "I won't leave." He brushed the fallen leaves off her shoulder, the action as natural as if he had done it a thousand times before. "I wouldn't have before, and I certainly won't have in the future."

The waiter brought over two cups of hot cocoa, the caramel on the rims shimmering under the light. Zhong Hua lowered his head and took a sip. As the sweet, warm liquid flowed down his throat, he suddenly remembered Lin Wanqing in the video: she was standing on the African savanna, with a sky full of stars behind her, smiling as she said, "Some guardians don't need to be by your side. It's enough to see you shine."

The night outside the window grew darker, and the lights of Montmartre resembled scattered diamonds on black velvet. Ah Yu looked at Zhong Hua's profile illuminated by the lights as he looked down, then suddenly took out her phone and flipped to the last photo in her album—it was a picture he had secretly taken of her on the Snow Mountain Rehabilitation Road. She was standing on tiptoe, tying a red string to a prayer wheel, sunlight filtering through her hair and casting dappled patterns of light on the ground.

“Look,” he handed over the phone, “my photo album is already full.”

Zhong Hua's fingertips swiped across the screen, and she suddenly burst out laughing. She raised her camera and switched to the photo from earlier: Ah Yu stood in the rain looking at her, with the Sacred Heart Cathedral and a sky full of sunset clouds in the background, and in the corner of the lens, she could just see her own shadow.

“Now,” she turned the camera toward him, the light from the screen reflecting in their eyes, “we’re even.”

The rain had completely stopped, and the wind carried the faint scent of lavender. Ah Yu knew that Lin Wanqing was right; some reunions don't need any prelude. Just like the rain in Montmartre always falls at the right time, just like him and Zhong Hua, after so many detours, they would eventually become the brightest scenery in each other's eyes.

An accordion in the distance was still playing an unknown tune. The waiter changed the record, and the soothing melody drifted through the small café. Ah Yu watched Zhong Hua stirring the hot cocoa with his head down, and suddenly wanted to capture this moment forever—not with a camera, but with every day to come, with the snow in Tibet, the rain in Paris, and all the unfinished dawns and dusks.