Her eyes lit up instantly, like the sunset reflected in the camera lens when she turned around at Montmartre. "Okay," she nodded with a smile, drawing circles on my chest with her fingertips, "and we should also bring that bottle of red wine that Lin Wanqing gave us, to drink under the stars. She said last time that the wind on the grassland can make wine, we have to go and try it."

The morning light streamed through the photo frame on the bedside table, revealing a heart made of three shadows—a wedding gift from Lin Wanqing. The photo was composited; Zhong Hua and I stood on the guesthouse balcony, while she sat by an African campfire. The moonlight stretched the shadows of the three of us long, eventually overlapping to form a warm shape. A line of small print was engraved on the edge of the frame: "Love is the soil that allows every soul to grow freely."

I picked up my pen again and drew a small sun in the middle of the triangle. It turns out that the best love isn't a choice, not a black-and-white sacrifice, but a perfect harmony where every corner can bask in the sunlight. Just like Lin Wanqing said, the three of us have always been each other's light. She illuminated our path forward, Zhong Hua illuminated the softness in my heart, and perhaps, at some moment, I also illuminated their loneliness.

The diary pages rustled softly as it closed. Outside the window, the lavender fields slept peacefully under the snow, awaiting spring's arrival to bloom into a purple sea, witnessing all the unfinished stories. Our story, too, had long since taken on the most stable shape in time—three vertices, three sides, connecting the winds of the snow-capped mountains, the rains of Paris, and the starlight of the African savanna.

Zhong Hua yawned and snuggled closer to me. "Go to sleep," she said softly, "we still need to go to town to buy Spring Festival couplets tomorrow." I hummed in agreement, gently stroking her hair with my fingers, and suddenly remembered what Lin Wanqing had said in the email: "The magic of an equilateral triangle is that no matter which vertex you start from, you can reach the other two."

Perhaps this is fate's gift, allowing us, after many twists and turns, to finally understand: some feelings transcend worldly definitions, as natural as air, yet indispensable. Just like the fire in the fireplace, the snow outside the window, and the breath of the person beside me, together they constitute the most peaceful scenery in this world.

I put the diary at the very back of the drawer, with the old key that had been repurposed as a guesthouse sign on top of it. The three initials that Zhong Hua had engraved on the back—A, Z, L—shimmered faintly in the morning light. This is probably the best kind of life: bearing the marks of the past, yet always growing towards warmth.