Chapter 50
Winter in Lyon is still coming to an end. The sky is gray and there is a lingering chill in the air.
The Spring Festival in China had just passed. Zou Ping took a few glances at the Spring Festival couplets and photos of family banquets posted by everyone on WeChat Moments, but she never clicked on them.
There are no firecrackers or red lanterns here. She is working overtime as usual in the studio of Maison Clairvoix.
The fabric on the table was shining. When the phone rang, she was staring at the flickering light on a piece of fabric, like a trapped animal staring at a cage.
The afternoon in Lyon was bright, but she felt that the air around her was gray.
She picked up the phone, and her voice came out of the headset: "Ms. Zou, Mr. Tang...passed away."
"Dead." The three words hit the water like a dull iron block, the splashing water silently splashing on her face. For a moment, she couldn't tell whether she was hearing French, Chinese, or no language at all. Just blankness.
She didn't cry. Crying required confirmation, and she didn't dare to confirm. In her mind were only countless imaginary conversations, unfinished conversations:
——"The next time we meet..."
——"After I finish this season..."
——"We'll talk about it later."
"after."
"after."
"after."
Those "later"s were like thin threads, hanging her heart in mid-air, and now they were cut off with a cold knife. She fell heavily, but her body was as stiff as stone.
The conversation on the other end of the line continued, the inheritance, the apartment, the cash, the detailed account like a cold account statement, but she couldn't hear it. Or rather, she heard it, but couldn't understand it. It was like someone reading a different language. She only understood one meaning: he was gone.
She lowered her head. There was a line on the paper, the one she had just drawn. That line came to an abrupt end, just like his life.
She remembered their last phone call. His voice was so soft, as soft as a fallen leaf blown by the wind.
She finally realized that it was a farewell, but she didn't recognize it.
A sudden, hollow pain flared up in her chest. She tried to breathe, but couldn't get enough air. She thought, if she could cut open her chest, perhaps she could see traces of him. But there was nothing there, only a cold, blank space.
She had thought they still had plenty of time, but the truth was, she couldn't even see him for the last time.
Zou Ping sat at the workbench, but her fingers were pressing the keyboard uncontrollably.
News headlines popped up on the screen, and her eyes only scanned the words, but her mind felt like a thousand layers of waves were surging, almost making her lose her balance:
"Tang Yuchuan died accidentally after falling down the stairs while drunk"
"Renowned entrepreneur Tang Yuchuan's sudden death has shocked the industry"
"Tang Yuchuan's accidental death: the final outcome amidst the shadow of the charity scandal?"
…
The tragic death of renowned entrepreneur Tang Yuchuan has sparked online debate: Is this the truth or just retribution?
…
She scrolled down bit by bit, but it was like opening a black hole with no end. Every word seemed to remind her that he was really gone, gone cleanly, without even saying goodbye.
She dialed Miao Zhan's number, her fingers trembling slightly, her voice barely audible: "Miao... Secretary Miao, that... is it... true?"
Miao Zhan's voice on the other end of the phone trembled, but with unquestionable confirmation: "It's true, Miss Zou. Mr. Tang... he's gone."
Zou Ping closed her eyes, her head feeling as if it were weighed down by a heavy object, her blood running slowly back to her body. She didn't cry, and even her breathing became slow and unnatural.
"An accident...fell down the stairs after drinking...had an asthma attack..." Miao Zhan continued, speaking slowly as if weighing the weight of each word. "The police have checked the scene and say there are no other suspicious circumstances."
Zou Ping held the phone tightly, her fingertips turned white, but she still didn't dare put it down.
She repeated: "Confirmed... confirmed..." as if by saying it a thousand times, she could remove the facts from her sight.
However, reality is not any gentler.
She put down the phone and leaned back in her chair, her fingers tightly gripping a corner of the fabric, her knuckles turning white.
It was getting dark outside the window. Winter nights in Lyon are always long.
The street lights outside the window lit up one by one, and the light came in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, shining on her body like a thin layer of ash.
There was only one voice in her head knocking over and over again: "Hotel stairs."
How did he fall in the stairwell?
He is such a cautious and steady person.
Doesn't the hotel have an elevator? Didn't you bring your medicine with you?
She remembered last year in Türkiye, when they were trapped on the day of the earthquake. Aftershocks hit one after another, and it was a mess outside, but he was still able to take out his asthma medicine from his pocket.
"I carry it with me."
He said it then, his tone as calm as if he were talking about a trivial matter.
Therefore, she couldn't believe that everything could be attributed to the word "accident".
She didn't dare to think about it, but the comments under the news emerged uncontrollably in her mind:
"This is retribution."
"You have done many evil things, and the law of nature will bring you retribution."
"People like this should have gone to hell long ago."
…
The words drove into her mind like nails, and the sounds exploded in waves.
She pressed her solar plexus hard, her fingertips were cold.
She knew he wasn't that kind of person.
He wouldn't hurt anyone, wouldn't shift the blame, wouldn't do anything like that.
She watched him bear the accusations little by little - from silence, to explanation, and then to giving up explanation.
How long ago was that?
It didn’t seem like long.
“Don’t read the comments.”
He said then.
"I can't finish it anyway."
His voice was light and gentle, as if he wasn't affected by the comments at all, and just told her not to be anxious.
Today, those comments continue—only the subject has changed from “he” to “he’s dead.”
Zou Ping stood up and picked up her coat from the table. She moved very slowly, as if she had to learn every move from scratch.
She walked to the window, and her face was reflected in the glass. There were no tears on that face, but it seemed as if all the blood had been drained out.
She said to herself, "Was it really just an accident?"
She turned on her computer and searched the news again.
Every version repeats the same words: "Drunk, asthma, fall, accident."
Like a carefully choreographed script, every word makes sense, so reasonable that it seems unreal.
She suddenly realized that she had no source she could trust.
She was in a foreign country, and his city was an entire continent away from her.
The only thing you can rely on is the "confirmed" from the other end of the phone.
But that sentence sounded too much like an official statement. She told herself that she should believe Secretary Miao and the official statement.
But, what if? What if it really isn't that simple?
She stared at the screen and suddenly chuckled. Then, she lowered her head and rubbed her fingertips on the table, as if calculating something.
She suddenly knew exactly what to do next!
She wants to go back.
"Are you really going to leave? If you leave now, you'll have to pay the penalty!" Isabelle thought she could still control her like this.
But Zou Ping was very determined this time. She wanted to go back. She had thought they still had a lot of time together, but in such a busy time, he left, leaving her alone.
There are still misunderstandings between them that have not been explained clearly.
Now, it has become an unresolved regret.
This penalty was almost all of Zou Ping's savings, but she still had to go back. She wanted to find out what had happened during her absence.
"Are you really leaving? If you leave now, you'll have to pay a penalty!"
Isabelle looked up from behind the documents, her eyes gazing at her with impatience and conviction. It was the kind of certainty typical of a superior, as if believing that money and the system would always keep someone here.
Zou Ping didn't answer immediately. Her fingers gently rubbed the contract, as if trying to confirm a certain texture. The edge of the paper pricked her so hard that it hurt.
"I know." She finally spoke, her voice calm and almost indifferent.
Isabelle was slightly taken aback, obviously not expecting her to be so calm.
"You know?"
"Yes." Zou Ping raised her head, her eyes clear and firm, "I will pay."
Her French was spoken without a trace of tremolo, and even her intonation maintained her usual politeness and restraint.
But at that moment, something in her heart collapsed.
Isabelle looked at her, as if discovering for the first time that this Oriental girl had such an expression. The look of someone who had made a final decision and there was no turning back.
"Zou, you should know that your current project is almost finished. I can let you in on the secret: someone at Maison Vermeil's higher-ups has noticed you. In a few months, if you follow our two brands' joint design, your name will be included in the collection."
Zou Ping stopped listening. The string of words became a blur of noise in her ears.
She just whispered, "I have to go back."
This time, when she said "go back", she didn't mean it in a purely geographical sense.
It was an inevitable turn back, back to that dusty truth, back to the city she thought she had said goodbye to, back to where he once existed.
Isabelle was silent for a moment, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she just shrugged: "C'est ta vie, alors."
——"That's your choice."
Zou Ping nodded and didn't explain any further.
When I came out of the office, it was already dark.
The streets of Lyon shone with damp light in the night, and the wind blew from the Rhone River, bringing a biting cold.
She held the briefcase and walked step by step on the cobblestone road. The sound of her heels tapping echoed in the empty street.
The voice was thin and resolute.
Back at the apartment, she began to take inventory.
Passports, bank cards, folders, copies of contracts...
Each one of them is a mark left by her nearly one year in France.
At midnight, she was typing in flight information on her computer.
Beneath the flashing flight number on the screen, a small note read: "No refunds or changes."
She looked at it for a long time before pressing the confirm button.
Her hands were shaking at the moment of confirmation.
But she didn't hesitate.
While packing her suitcase, she came across an old photo that she had taken secretly in Türkiye.
She remembered that day he smiled and said to her, "Are you scared?"
She asked back, "Aren't you afraid?"
He smiled and said, "There's no point in being afraid."
She put the photo into the passport holder and snapped it shut.
The night fell completely, and the wind outside the window blew the rain, hitting the glass.
She leaned against the headboard and suddenly realized that she had never dreamed of him.
But tonight, she hoped to dream about him once, even if it was just in a dream, and ask him: What on earth have you been through?
She closed her eyes.
The sound of wind came through the window, carrying with it the sound of distant breathing.
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