Chapter 52
"You're crazy."
Zou Ping's voice was very soft, almost squeezed out from the shadow of her throat.
Zou Ping was surprised. She was surprised that Gu Xing actually did it. So calmly, as if he were cutting a piece of rotten meat, he ended another person's life. She had always thought he wouldn't do that.
She knew he was crazy, but she thought his madness was rational, madness that could be contained by the law. But she was wrong.
Gu Xing asked: "Did I do something wrong?"
His eyes were calm, the kind of calm that made one shudder, like someone who had finally reached the bottom of the ocean and stopped struggling upon seeing the light.
In the past, he always had a sickly warmth—delicate, cold, paranoid, like a sleeping snake. But this time, he was as calm as death.
They spent more than a month traveling, explaining, collecting, and waiting. Li Li went to France, away from everything.
Li Li also testified that Tang Yuchuan was simply trying to protect him that day. Later, it was revealed that Tang Yuchuan had collapsed at the stairwell, his asthma medication just out of reach. The light was a warm white, like a cold moon. The surveillance camera wasn't working that night. Li Li, suffering from a drug reaction, had stayed hidden in his room all night, so he saw nothing.
This is the greatest absurdity in the world. The truth is always in the broken part of the video.
They won a small victory. In public opinion, Tang Yuchuan was no longer just "the son with original sin." Some began to defend him, saying he was a good man and shouldn't be punished for his father's mistakes. But some people always cling to the word "original sin." It's just that the dead are the greatest, and once someone dies in this world, public opinion seems to treat them more kindly.
They thought they had won. But the red seal on the police case file was a grave; once covered, everything was gone. Clues, testimony, the truth, all burst like bubbles. Gu Xing fell silent. Zou Ping sometimes dreamed of him, smiling and saying, "We're almost there." Then she woke up to find the air cold.
Later he killed Du Qianfeng. Yes, as they investigated, they learned that the man who intended to violate Li Li but killed Tang Yuchuan that day was called Du Qianfeng.
When she realized it, she felt like she had fallen into a huge glass cover. There was a vacuum all around her and she could no longer hear any crying.
She said, "You run away. I..."
She hadn't figured out what to say after "I." She wanted to say, "I'll help you," but then she felt that would be a crime. All she knew was that she hated it, too. Like him, she hated the world, hated the innocent people who had to pay for the evil of others.
Hate him to death.
Hate to keep her alive.
Gu Xing shook his head and said he wanted to surrender himself.
He said he was tired of living. He had used hatred as a skeleton to keep him going until today. He thought hatred could give him strength, but later he found that it was just an illusion.
Someone like Tang Yuchuan - so good, why should I hate him?
He was a little confused, but just a few months ago, he still hated her with all his heart.
But he doesn't know how to love, he only knows how to hate.
When he was alive, he hated him.
After he died, he hated his killer.
"Then I'll help him get revenge." He smiled, "That way I'll be useful."
He said he would return the Gu family's things to Zou Ping, said he acknowledged that she was Gu Wanqing, and said this was the last apology he could give.
Zou Ping refused. It wasn't because she was aloof, or because she didn't care about money. She simply felt that if she took it, Gu Xing's connection with the world would be completely severed.
Although money is something outside of one's body, if a person still loves money, it seems that he has more connection with this world. If he does not even love money, it seems that he is far away from this world.
She was a little scared of Gu Xing like this.
They pushed and pulled, argued, like two people about to fall off a cliff, pulling at each other, but neither felt they could save the other.
In the end, Gu Xing left and wanted to surrender himself.
Zou Ping said, "Then I'll wait for you to come back. I'll keep your things for you. Just for safekeeping."
She had actually thought about changing her name back a long time ago.
Gu Wanqing.
What a beautiful name, carrying a lingering sense of the past, like moonlight still lingering on the ground. It sounded pleasant to others, but to her, it felt cold. It was like a dream chosen by someone, a dream she could not remember, a dream that did not belong to her.
But she couldn't remember that dream. The surname "Gu" was only an abstract blood relationship for her, like a legend someone casually mentioned, with no warm connection to her.
The one she is more familiar with is "Zou Ping".
That name was given by Zou's mother.
Zou's mother said, "Ping is duckweed. It has no roots and is destined to drift with the water."
At that time, she was young and could not hear any malice, but only felt that there was a kind of contemptuous self-righteousness in the tone. Later, she understood that it was actually a punishment for naming.
Once a name is spoken, it determines the shape of destiny.
"Zou Ping" - that name was beaten, scolded, despised, and pushed away with her, and it also grew up with her.
Sometimes she hated it, feeling it was like a shackle, reminding her where she came from; sometimes she felt it was proof of her survival.
All the pain, humiliation, tenacity and stubbornness are engraved in every stroke of this name.
The character "Ping" (坪) means duckweed. It's unknown why Zou's mother chose this character, but Zou Ping herself secretly gave it a different interpretation.
She felt that "ping" could also be something that refused to sink, and even without roots, it was unwilling to be swallowed by water.
That's just the kind of person she is.
It was not until she met Tang Yuchuan that she felt for the first time that perhaps duckweed could also stay still for a while.
That kind of stability is not about possession, but about being understood.
He looked at her without pity or curiosity.
He just saw her.
At that moment, all her wanderings made sense.
At that moment, she realized that "Ping" can also have a shore.
So when Gu Xing pushed everything back into her hands, she shook her head slightly.
She doesn't want Gu's things, nor does she want to be redefined.
She just wanted to keep her name.
The name that was considered an insult by others, but was lived out by her own efforts.
The name she used when her life intersected with Tang Yuchuan's.
She said, "I still say the same thing. Although Gu Wanqing is my birth name, I don't remember anything from my childhood. From now on, I just want to be Zou Ping."
She was willing to continue to call it by this name, not to forgive the Zou family, but to acknowledge that all the cracks in her life were engraved on it. This was the proof that she had lived.
"Ms. Zou, do you really want to invest all this into the charity fund?" The lawyer reconfirmed her decision with a cautious and dissuading tone.
"Yes." Zou Ping answered firmly.
After Tang Yuchuan passed away, the legacy he left behind was surprising: eight-digit deposits, a villa in Jiangcheng, an apartment in Beijing, equity in several overseas investments, and an art collection that he rarely mentioned during his lifetime, all left to Zou Ping.
He left only the old house and the Swiss manor to Tan Jing.
Zou Ping wanted to know why. Why would Tang Yuchuan, at his age, make a will? Who would have thought that a man in his thirties would arrange things for his death in advance?
But he did it.
She didn't have a chance to ask.
This matter spread quickly in the circle.
Some said she was lucky, while others secretly mocked her, saying that even if she cried bitterly, it was worth it. She heard these comments, but she didn't even have the energy to be angry. If this money could buy Tang Yuchuan a day, an hour, or a breath, she would give it all; if it took more, she would even be willing to sacrifice her life. But dead is dead. No matter how much money there is, it is just dust.
Zou Ping knew she didn't need so much. She wanted to live a simpler life, perhaps a more meaningful one. Tang Yuchuan died saving lives, and if his legacy could help more people, perhaps that would be the best way for him to rest in peace. So, she decided, aside from the apartment they had lived in together and a small amount of necessary cash, to donate the rest to charity. She established a foundation and personally oversaw every disbursement.
She knew the outside world wouldn't understand. Her lawyer repeatedly urged her to reconsider, but she knew deep down that this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision, nor was it simply out of kindness. She wasn't any better than others; she simply couldn't bear the thought of the money being misused and forgotten. She wanted it to "live," to fulfill the wishes of others and to satisfy her longing for him.
She knew that Tang Yuchuan's father had committed horrific acts under the guise of charity. Those acts, disguised as acts of kindness, had caused a stir online and served as a powerful weapon against Tang Yuchuan. But now, she was determined to cleanse "charity" of its sins. She wanted to do it herself, to wash away that tainted past.
Someone asked her, "Why do you do this? Are you trying to atone for your sins?"
She smiled and shook her head.
"It's not about atonement," she said. "I just want to do some good for him."
In the past, she never believed in gods or Buddhas, nor did she believe in karma. But after Tang Yuchuan died, she would occasionally wonder, if there really is an afterlife, then everything she did for him, would it make his next life smoother?
She often worked alone at night, her pen swishing across the pages like she was copying scriptures. She knew she wasn't holy or gentle, she just loved him, a love she couldn't express in words, a love she would fully understand only after death.
She had thought she simply liked him, his restrained gentleness and thoughtful eyes; but when she confirmed he was truly dead, she realized she had never loved someone so deeply. It was a love that came with prayer, a love that wanted him to feel a little easier and warmer in the other world.
Late at night, she would turn off all the lights, leaving only a warm wall lamp on.
The fund's documents were spread out on the table, and she read them page by page, as if she were reading a biography with no ending.
She said to herself, “This is also a kind of continuation.”
She put down the pen and whispered softly: "Tang Yuchuan, I... miss you so much."
"Are you really not coming back?" When Zou Ping asked this question, her voice was very soft, as if she was talking to the air.
She hadn't wanted to make this call.
Tan Jing is the woman Tang Yuchuan has loved for many years. She has stayed in his life longer than anyone else, and has also been humiliated more deeply by fate than anyone else. Zou Ping has both pity and wariness towards her.
She knew that there was no possibility of pure relationship between her and Tan Jing. Whether it was empathy or opposition, it would be unbalanced because of Tang Yuchuan.
But Tang Yuchuan was dead, and she couldn't avoid it. She felt that Tan Jing should know about it no matter what.
There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds before Tan Jing's voice came through. It was calm and gentle, yet there was a layer of coldness that kept people from getting close. "Yes, I'm not going back. Coming back won't change anything. I think I should move on."
There was no vibrato when she said this.
Zou Ping was stunned. She thought Tan Jing would cry, or at least choke up. But she didn't.
She was calmer than Zou Ping had imagined, and more free and easy than Zou Ping had imagined.
It was late at night and she walked into the kitchen.
There were also several boxes of frozen beef brisket with tomatoes in the freezer, covered in a layer of frost, about a year and a half old.
Tang Yuchuan had made it. He was drunk that day, the kitchen light a warm yellow, the aroma of tomatoes filling the room. He must have been thinking of her again, so he cooked countless dishes. She packed the dishes into boxes and put them in the refrigerator, never to be taken out again.
She opened the container and placed the frozen beef brisket into the pot. As the steam rose, a sweet and sour aroma gradually spread, and the air suddenly felt warm. That was the taste he had once made.
She looked at the boiling red soup in the pot, and her heart suddenly went blank. All those past days, all those hesitations, entanglements, and restrained loves, all fermented again in this bowl of food.
She picked up the bowl and sat at the dining table.
At that table, they had eaten together, argued together, and remained silent together. Now she was alone. She picked up the spoon and took a sip. The sour taste of the soup spread on her tongue, and she suddenly couldn't control her tears and fell.
It wasn't because of jealousy. It wasn't because of Tan Jing.
She suddenly realized that after his death, she could still eat the dishes he cooked—the tomatoes he had cut himself, the meat he had stewed, even the seasoning ratios he had used. That familiar taste made her realize for the first time that he was truly gone.
She originally wanted to let Tan Jing have a taste too, but Tan Jing said no, she wanted to move on.
So, this bowl of tomato beef brisket became a souvenir for her.
She ate slowly, tears dripping into the bowl, mixing with the soup. She felt pity for herself, yet also felt that such pity was tender. Because she loved him. She loved him so much that even after his death, she wanted to complete some trivial ritual for him. She loved him so much that a bowl of tomato beef brisket that had been frozen for a year and a half could become the last solid connection in her life.
She finished eating and put the bowl back on the table, her tears having dried.
At that moment she suddenly understood that people do not survive by forgetting, but learn to coexist with those things that still carry their breath, and place love deeper and deeper as time goes by, so as not to let it disappear.
For a long time after that, Zou Ping never did any real creation.
She used to make a living by painting and express herself through painting, but now there are no more landscapes and people on her canvas, only the face of one person - Tang Yuchuan.
She described him over and over again almost frantically, trying to recall his outline from her memories, dreams, and those blurry photos and fragments of images.
She was afraid that she would forget him, afraid that his features would become blurred in the passage of time, afraid that one day when she woke up, she would not even be able to remember the way he smiled.
So she painted, painted madly, not for exhibition, nor for leaving her name, but just to prove in the process of painting that he really existed.
At the same time, she devotes a lot of time to charity projects.
She followed every account, every donation, and the progress of every remote project. Others called her stubborn, but she never argued. She felt that living that way was meaningful. That meaning wasn't redemption or commemoration, but a kind of support that allowed her to continue to hold her ground in this empty world.
Sometimes she would look back at her studio late at night, where the walls were covered with Tang Yuchuan's portraits—some gentle, some distant, some barely discernible. Under the light, those portraits stared at her silently like an endless dream.
She suddenly felt that this might be the continuation of her and him: he became the eternity in her painting, and she was doing what he once believed.
In this way, time passed little by little.
Two years.
The sky outside the window is still dim, and lights occasionally flicker in the night, like the breath of a distant world.
Zou Ping sat in her apartment, brush still in hand. On the canvas before her was Tang Yuchuan's face, the one she had depicted and recreated countless times. Those eyes, those features, those smiles, it was as if they had never left her; her fingertips could still feel that warmth.
She thought back to herself over the years—painting his portrait was like piecing together an incomplete world; giving to charity was like living his life for him; loneliness, crying, laughing, and anger were all tinged with his shadow. She knew she couldn't erase him from her life, nor did she want to.
She gently put down her paintbrush, stood up and walked to the window. Under the dim sky, she saw the lights of the city in the distance, like tiny but steadfast stars.
She suddenly understood that life doesn't stop because of loss, nor does it disappear because of sadness. That love, those memories, everything about him, had become part of her world. She couldn't bring him back, but she could use his presence as strength to keep moving forward.
She looked at the faintly flickering lights in the distance, and a clarity she had never felt before welled up in her heart. She knew he was dead, but he had never truly left. He had left the world, but he had never left her life.
He on the canvas, he in her heart, he in the night, they are all here, breathing and existing with her.
She smiled slightly, as if to herself, and as if saying goodbye to him, then she picked up the paintbrush again and drew a new line.
Life goes on, and he continues in every stroke.
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