Died without illness

The steaming heat of the hot pot seems still vivid in my mind, and the laughter still seems to linger in my ears, but the warmth of that family dinner that night, like the receding tide, was quickly replaced by a new, sweet yet slightly anxious feeling.

It all started with a casual remark made by Sister Jin at the dinner table. She picked up a piece of fatty beef with her chopsticks and put it in Ning Wan's bowl, asking with a smile, "Little Wan, when is your birthday? I'll cook something delicious for you then."

Ning Wan was blowing on the shrimp paste in her bowl when she heard this. She looked up, her eyes crinkling with a hint of embarrassment, and said, "Thank you, Sister Jin. My birthday is May 13th, it'll be soon."

"May 13th?" Sister Jin did the math. "That's only a little over ten days away! Oh my, that's a big birthday, turning twenty, right? We should celebrate properly!"

Everyone at the table laughed and chimed in, and Qin Zhou had already started clamoring about which bakery to order the cake from.

Amidst the lively atmosphere, Qi Shuo's hand holding the chopsticks paused slightly.

May 13th, I'll be twenty. Just over ten days left.

He turned his head to look at Ning Wan beside him, whose cheeks were slightly flushed and eyes were shining because she was being noticed. He felt a sudden emptiness in his heart. He actually... only just found out.

He didn't even know her birthday, even though she was the one he liked.

Sister Jin's gaze swept over Qi Shuo seemingly unintentionally, carrying a hint of understanding, even a slight reproach of "disappointment," as if to say, "Silly boy, you can't even figure this out?"

Qi Shuo subconsciously lowered his eyelashes, staring at the bubbling red oil in the bowl, finding it tasteless.

What gift should I give? Once this thought arose, it quickly entwined his entire mind like a vine.

Apart from Sister Jin, his deceased mother, and his sister, there has never been a woman in his life for whom he needed to painstakingly choose a gift.

This unfamiliar task, with its specific purpose, left him feeling a sense of bewilderment and... awkwardness he had never experienced before.

After the meal, as usual, he drove Ning Wan back to school.

Along the way, Ning Wan was still excitedly planning to go to the newly opened amusement park on her birthday. Qi Shuo mostly listened quietly, occasionally humming in agreement, but his mind had already wandered far away.

Only after watching Ning Wan's figure disappear at the dormitory entrance did the gentleness on his face gradually give way to a clear sense of unease.

Back in that familiar and quiet little room, Qi Shuo couldn't sleep for the first time because of the "gift".

Like an inexperienced young man, he began searching his mind for every possible piece of information.

What does she like? Books, milk tea, and... those sentences that make her eyes light up when she sees them?

He recalled their time together in the library, her excitement when she suddenly understood a brilliant translation, and the way she wrinkled her nose when she complained about some awkward translations... A vague idea gradually became clear, yet it made him hesitate.

Is this... okay? Won't it be too shabby, too worthless?

In the following days, this anxiety only intensified. Was it really possible to rely on Qin Zhou and Song Yungui for advice?

Qi Shuo could almost imagine what kind of "surprise" solution those two clowns would come up with.

Lin Ye is at a crucial stage in his preparation for the college entrance examination, so he should not be disturbed.

He had no choice but to bring along Xiao Jue, who was relatively reliable, and use his time after get off work to travel between various shopping malls in Beicheng.

Two men, tall and with vastly different yet equally striking appearances, frequently appearing at jewelry counters, cosmetics counters, boutiques, and even toy stores—this combination alone is eye-catching enough. However, the outcome is disappointing.

Necklaces and bracelets? Too frivolous, and he doesn't understand her tastes at all.

Lipstick and skincare products? He doesn't even understand shades or skin types.

Cute doll ornaments? They seem too childish and don't match the calm demeanor she exudes when reading.

They wandered around like headless flies, and Xiao Jue, unusually, didn't complain. He accompanied him to visit each store, rejecting each one repeatedly. In the end, he could only pat him on the shoulder and say helplessly, "There's really no standard answer to this. Sister Jin is right, the intention is the most important."

But what exactly is "heartfelt intention"? For the first time outside of the battlefield and prison, Qi Shuo felt such a clear sense of defeat.

This setback was not about life or death, but about an emotional connection that he had just begun to learn and cherished.

Finally, on yet another fruitless night, Qi Shuo stood at the entrance of the bustling shopping mall, watching the neon lights flash, and suddenly made up his mind.

He turned to Xiao Jue, his eyes filled with a calm resignation: "Forget it, let's not shop anymore. I know what to give him."

He decided to give her a unique gift, one that belonged only to them—to personally translate her favorite collection of essays.

She mentioned that book several times, saying that the original text was beautiful, but the existing Chinese translations were all mediocre and always felt like something was missing.

This decision instantly changed Qi Shuo's life rhythm. All his free time after work, even late at night, was occupied by this massive "project".

The desk lamp often stayed on until two or three in the morning. He would hunch over his desk, with dictionaries, original texts, and thick notebooks spread out on the table. He would scrutinize every word and sentence, repeatedly considering which word best conveyed the spirit of the original text and which sentence structure best suited Chinese reading habits. Sometimes, he could sit for half an hour just to find a suitable idiom.

With beautiful, regular script penmanship, he meticulously left annotations, alternative translations, and the occasional flash of inspiration imbued with his personal understanding in his notebook.

This is no longer just translation; it's more like a clumsy yet devout outpouring. At twenty-six, he seems to be subtly overlapping with the eighteen-year-old boy he once was, full of dreams of translation, through the tip of his pen.

The passion crushed by cruel reality, the pursuit of the beauty of words buried deep in the heart, cautiously peeked out in the quiet of the night under the guise of preparing a gift for the beloved girl, breathing in the long-lost air filled with the fragrance of ink.

A long-lost, pure "youthful spirit" flows quietly from the tip of the pen.

On the night before Ning Wan's twentieth birthday, Qi Shuo finally wrote the last period. He put down his pen, let out a long sigh of relief, and stretched his stiff neck.

Looking at the thick, handwritten translation in front of me, meticulously bound, with the book title and Ning Wan's name written in neat handwriting.

He was exhausted, but his heart was filled with unprecedented satisfaction and anticipation. He could almost picture her surprised and happy face when she received the gift.

However, when he snapped out of this highly focused state, he suddenly realized a fact he had overlooked for a long time—

He and Ning Wan hadn't seen each other properly in a long time.

Lately, our communications have become unusually brief. Messages sent often take a long time to receive a reply, and usually only a few dry words like "studying", "busy with finals", or "talk next time".

Calls were extremely rare. When they did connect, the background noise was loud, and she spoke very quickly, clearly in a hurry, and would hang up after only a few words.

He understood the pressure of final exams and never thought much of it, much less bother her.

But until the eve of his birthday, this "busyness" escalated into near-disconnection.

Birthday wishes sent are ignored, and phone calls dialed are forever redirected to caller ID.

An ominous premonition, like a cold snake, quietly coiled around his heart.

May 13th was Ning Wan's 20th birthday.

Qi Shuo took leave and arrived at the library early in the morning, the place where they first met and shared the most memories. He sat in that familiar window seat, clutching the carefully prepared translation manuscript tied with a light-colored ribbon tightly to his chest, as if holding a rare treasure, or as if holding a life-saving piece of driftwood.

From the morning sunlight streaming through the glass windows, to the intense midday light, to the afternoon shadows fading westward, and finally to nightfall, the library lights are turned off one by one, and the librarians begin clearing the area.

He stood frozen in place, like a sculpture, his gaze fixed on the entrance. Each footstep made his heart leap, causing him to look up expectantly, only to lower his head in disappointment.

"Sir, we are closed." The librarian came over for the third time to kindly remind us.

Qi Shuo raised his head, his eyes vacant, his lips moved, but in the end he said nothing, silently stood up and walked out.

But he didn't leave. He just sat silently on the cold steps at the library entrance, clutching the gift. The night wind was chilly, ruffling his neat short hair, but he didn't feel the cold.

The city's neon lights flickered behind him, outlining his lonely and stubborn silhouette.

He's still waiting.

Perhaps her phone just died? Perhaps she was held up by something urgent? Perhaps... she'll appear any moment later, running towards him with an apologetic smile?

Time ticked by, and hope dwindled bit by bit. Until past midnight, at one in the morning, the streets were completely deserted.

A pair of familiar leather shoes stopped in front of him. Qi Shuo didn't look up.

A warm coat was draped over his trembling shoulders. Xiao Jue sat down beside him without saying a word, simply keeping him company, and lit a cigarette, the crimson flame flickering in the night.

Silence, like a heavy curtain, enveloped the two of them. After a long, long time, Qi Shuo finally spoke, extremely slowly, in a hoarse voice as if sanded, so soft it seemed to dissipate in the wind:

"I can't find her."

The despair contained in those words made Xiao Jue's fingers, which were holding a cigarette, tremble violently.

He had known Qi Shuo for almost twenty years, witnessed his most painful loss and darkest prison, and seen him angry, numb, and even on the verge of collapse, but he had never heard him speak in such a tone—a deathly silence that came after his beliefs had been uprooted and all his efforts had been in vain.

This was the first time Qi Shuo had truly tried to like someone, the first time he had so clumsily and wholeheartedly given his all, only to be met with such a sudden and unexplained disappearance.

Xiao Jue opened his mouth, but found that any words of comfort seemed so pale and powerless at this moment.

He couldn't truly understand the coldness of being abandoned by the whole world, but seeing his friend like this, his heart felt like it was blocked by a boulder, and he felt a terrible, dull pain.

He could only reach out and hug Qi Shuo's shoulders tightly.

Just then, hurried footsteps sounded in the distance. Sister Jin and Qin Zhou came running up, panting; Xiao Jue had clearly informed them.

When Jin Jie saw Qi Shuo sitting on the cold steps, looking lost and dejected, as if he had been reduced to his original form overnight, tears welled up in her eyes instantly.

Qin Zhou burst into tears, rushing over like a cannonball, clinging tightly to Qi Shuo's waist, burying her face in his chest, and sobbing incoherently, "Brother Shuo, let's go home! Let's go home! We don't want her anymore, we don't want her anymore, let's go home!"

Sister Jin stepped forward, knelt down, and gently stroked Qi Shuo's cold, stubble-covered cheek. Her voice was choked with emotion but unusually gentle: "Shuo, be good, let's go home. It's cold outside. Come home with Sister Jin, okay?"

The string that had been held together so tightly finally snapped at this moment.

Qi Shuo suddenly lowered his head, his forehead pressed against the gift in his arms, a gift he had poured countless efforts into, which now seemed incredibly ironic. His shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably.

Suppressed, broken sobs, like those of a wounded beast, escaped from the depths of his throat. What began as low whimpers quickly escalated into uncontrollable, gasping wailing.

He cried so hard that his whole body convulsed, and tears streamed down his face, quickly soaking the cover of the book and his own clothes.

He clung tightly to Qin Zhou, who was lying in his arms, as if Qin Zhou was the only anchor that could prevent him from being completely swallowed up by this vortex of despair.

"Why... why..." he asked hoarsely over and over again, as if asking his tearful relatives and friends, as if asking the silent night sky, and even more so, as if asking the fate that kept toying with him.

"Why is it always... why is it that just when I feel... feel like I can grasp something... that it gets taken away... why?!"

"It gives me hope... then takes it away... this is more painful than never having had it at all..."

"Why won't you let me go... What did I do wrong... I just want to live a simple, ordinary life like a normal person... Why is it so hard?!"

"God... I beg you... please have mercy on me... It wasn't my fault... why are you punishing me like this... why—"

His pent-up grievances, resentment, fear, and self-doubt burst forth like a flood at this moment.

The pain of losing his family eight years ago, the bitterness of eight years in prison, the difficulties of every step after his release, and the flame that had just been lit but was extinguished in an instant...

Everything was reduced to this desperate questioning and lament.

Sister Jin held his trembling body tightly, tears streaming down her face. Qin Zhou cried so hard he could barely breathe. Xiao Jue, his eyes red, turned his head away. Even Song Yungui and Lin Ye, who had rushed over, stood not far away, silently wiping away their tears.

She cried for an unknown amount of time before her voice gradually faded, leaving only uncontrollable, intermittent sobs.

Qi Shuo seemed to have exhausted all his strength, collapsing there with a blank stare at the ground.

He slowly, extremely slowly, raised his head, his eyes blurred with tears as he gazed at the dark night sky, devoid of any stars.

He said it softly, almost inaudibly:

There are no stars today.

Then, he lowered his head and looked at the translation manuscript in his arms, its words blurred by tears.

The night was as thick as ink, swallowing him and his heart, which had just begun to ignite a glimmer of light but quickly died out.