Chapter 53 The more he forgets, the more jealous he becomes of "her," and it gets a little worse...
Autumn sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting dappled patterns of light on the wooden floor. Shuzhi crouched in the corner of the storage room, her fingertips brushing against a dusty celadon tea caddy. The white plum blossoms hand-painted on the caddy were covered in fine dust, much like the one she had personally fired at the pottery studio last week.
“This is…” She turned to look at Dai Yuzhuo, who was leaning against the door frame, her voice trembling slightly, “Your ex-wife also liked to paint white plum blossoms?”
Dai Yuzhuo's Adam's apple bobbed, and his fingertips unconsciously gripped the edge of the door frame. He wanted to say that the tea canister was originally Shuzhi's work, that they had never had any "ex-wife," but the words stuck in his throat. The doctor had warned him not to forcibly awaken her memory, otherwise it would only plunge her into deeper confusion.
"Yes, she used to like it very much." He finally uttered only this sentence, his gaze falling on the tea canister, as if looking through the thin layer of dust at the girl who had carefully sketched plum blossoms under the lamp many years ago.
Shuzhi's heart sank. She got up and walked to the tea table, placing the tea canister on it. Sunlight fell on the canister, making the outline of the white plum blossoms even clearer, even the patterns on the petals were exactly the same as hers. A strange bitterness welled up in her heart, and she stared at the tea canister as if she were looking at a "rival in love" who had stolen her favorite thing.
"Even the technique for painting plum blossoms is the same?" She picked up the tea canister, her fingertips turning white from the pressure. "Does she also like to use pine soot ink? Does she also like to hang a small silver bell under the plum branch?"
Dai Yuzhuo's face gradually paled. He stepped forward, wanting to take the tea canister from her hand: "Shuzhi, don't do this, it's just an old thing..."
“Old things?” Shuzhi suddenly raised her voice, her eyes welling up with tears. “They’re old things to her, but what about to me? I thought these preferences were unique to me, but it turns out I’m just repeating her example?”
Before she could finish speaking, she slammed the tea canister to the ground. The sound of the shattering porcelain was particularly jarring in the quiet living room, and the white plum blossom shards scattered on the floor like fragments of broken moonlight.
Dai and Zhuo stood frozen in place, staring at the scattered porcelain shards. His heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by an invisible hand, the pain almost suffocating him. He remembered when Shuzhi fired this teapot, her fingers burned by the kiln fire, yet she still smiled and said, "This way, the plum blossoms will have warmth." He remembered how they had used this teapot to brew pre-rain Longjing tea, chatting by the window until late at night. But now, she had destroyed all of that with her own hands, and even treated him as a substitute for her "ex-wife."
“Shuzhi…” His voice was hoarse, with a slight, almost imperceptible tremor, but he could say nothing more. The unspoken truths, the memories buried deep in his heart, had all turned into sharp fragments, piercing him and drawing blood.
Looking at Dai Yuzhuo's pale face, Shuzhi felt a strange sense of panic, yet the jealousy still lingered in her heart. She turned her face away, unable to look at the porcelain shards or the pain in Dai Yuzhuo's eyes.
That night, after Shuzhi fell asleep, Dai Yuzhu quietly got up and went to the living room. He squatted on the floor and, by the faint moonlight from the window, carefully picked up the shards of celadon porcelain, one by one. When his fingertips touched the cool porcelain shards, his movements were exceptionally gentle, as if he were touching a rare treasure. He placed the shards into a plain brocade box, and then hid the box in the deepest drawer of the wardrobe, where Shuzhi's old plum blossom sketches and old photos of the two of them were kept—all memories he couldn't bear to discard.
A few days later, one afternoon, Shuzhi was helping Daiyu Zhuo organize his wardrobe, looking for a gray sweater he often wore. As she pulled open the deepest drawer, the plain brocade box accidentally fell to the ground, the lid popping open and scattering shards of celadon porcelain inside. She crouched down, about to pick up the shards, when her fingertips touched a piece with white plum blossom patterns. Suddenly, a blurry image flashed through her mind—under the dim light, she sat at a table, a paintbrush in hand, carefully sketching plum branches on a celadon jar. Beside her stood a figure, watching her tenderly, gently brushing a stray hair from her forehead. The image flashed by, as fast as an illusion, yet a familiar warmth welled up in her heart, along with a touch of indescribable bittersweetness.
"Shuzhi, what are you looking for?" Dai Yuzhuo's voice came from the doorway, carrying a hint of barely perceptible tension.
Shuzhi snapped out of her daze, looking at the porcelain shard in her hand, then up at Dai Yuzhuo, her eyes filled with confusion: "I think I just remembered something, but I can't quite recall it. This shard..."
Dai Yuzhuo's heart skipped a beat. He quickly stepped forward and put the scattered fragments back into the brocade box, his voice a little hoarse: "It's nothing, just old things. If you're tired, don't bother tidying it up, I can do it myself." He didn't dare let Shuzhi stare at the fragments anymore, afraid of triggering more chaotic memories for her, and even more afraid that she wouldn't be able to accept the truth after discovering it.
As Shuzhi watched Dai Yuzhuo quickly close the brocade box, the doubts in her heart rippled like pebbles thrown into a lake. She didn't ask any further questions, but silently stood up and handed over the gray sweater she had just found. Her fingertips still felt the cool touch of the porcelain shards, as well as that fleeting, indescribable warmth.
Since then, Shuzhi couldn't help but pay attention to Daiyuzhuo's actions. She noticed that he often got up quietly late at night to make phone calls on the balcony, his voice very low, and occasionally she could hear words like "prenatal checkup" and "get some rest." She also saw that when he was preparing breakfast in the kitchen, he would subconsciously avoid coffee and instead brew a cup of warm red date and goji berry tea, his eyes filled with a tenderness and worry that she couldn't understand.
"Ah!" Shuzhi suddenly clutched her head, the intense headache making her almost unable to stand. The images flooded back like a tide, chaotic yet clear, leaving her unable to distinguish between reality and illusion.
Upon hearing the sound, Dai Yuzhuo immediately put down his documents and ran over to support the swaying Shuzhi: "Shuzhi, what's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?" His voice was full of anxiety, and his hand unconsciously went to his lower abdomen.
Shuzhi raised her head, looked into Daiyuzhuo's eyes, and tears involuntarily streamed down her face: "I can't remember, I still can't remember..."
Not only can I not remember, but I forget more and more as the more I forget.
Dai Yuzhuo gently stroked Shuzhi's back and whispered in her ear, "Shuzhi, it's okay. It's okay if you can't remember. We can start over."
"No! Get out!" Why should she stay here, living in the shadow of the previous 'mistress'?
"Did she draw this too?" Shuzhi pointed to the sketchbook she found in the study today, her voice tinged with barely perceptible tension.
Dai Yuzhuo followed her gaze, his fingertips gently tracing the cover of the sketchbook, as if touching fragile moments of time: "Yes, she used to love painting plum blossoms, saying that plum blossoms in winter are the most resilient." He paused, then added, "These sketchbooks have been sitting for too long, taking up space, so I was thinking of sorting them out and donating them."
Shuzhi crouched down, intending to pick up a picture book to look at it. The moment her fingers touched the cover, a blurry white image flashed through her mind—like snow falling from the sky, or like white plum blossoms blooming on branches, with faint, fragmented laughter echoing in her ears. But before she could grasp that feeling, the image vanished, leaving only a strange emptiness.
"What's wrong?" Dai Yuzhu noticed her absent-mindedness and reached out to help her, but withdrew his hand just before touching her shoulder.
"It's nothing." Shuzhi shook her head and put the sketchbook back in the box. "I'm probably just a little tired." She stood up and walked out of the study, not daring to look at the sketchbooks again, afraid that the inexplicable sense of familiarity in her heart would stir up more indescribable emotions.
"Shuzhi?" Dai Yuzhuo's voice suddenly came from the doorway. "I bought your favorite strawberries, do you want some..." He stopped when he saw the notebook in Shuzhi's hand, and his face instantly turned pale.
Shuzhi hurriedly closed the notebook, stood up, and looked at him, her eyes full of doubt: "These... were all written to her by you?"
Dai Yuzhuo walked over, took the notebook from her hands, and gently placed it back in the drawer, his movements as tender as if he were handling some precious treasure: "I just jotted it down casually before, it's nothing special." He avoided Shuzhi's gaze, turned and walked towards the door, "I'm going to wash the strawberries, you wait for me in the living room."
As Shuzhi watched his retreating figure, her doubts deepened. She always felt that the "she" in those records had some inexplicable connection to her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what was wrong.
At dinner, Dai and Zhuo made Shuzhi's favorite sweet and sour pork ribs, and also stewed a pot of corn and pork rib soup. While drinking the soup, Shuzhi suddenly asked, "Does she like sweet and sour pork ribs too?"
Dai Yuzhuo paused in her hand holding the ribs, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes, before nodding: "Yes, she used to say that my sweet and sour ribs are better than those in restaurants."
Shuzhi gave an "Oh," and said nothing more, just lowered her head and drank her soup. The warmth of the soup comforted her stomach, but she still felt a little empty inside. She looked at Dai Yuzhuo and suddenly felt that the person in front of her was both familiar and strange—he remembered her favorite dishes and could clumsily make soft-boiled eggs, but in his heart, there was always someone else.
After washing up in the evening, Shuzhi sat on the bay window in her bedroom, looking at the moonlight outside. Dai Yuzhuo came over and handed her a glass of warm milk: "Drink a glass of milk before bed, it'll help you sleep better."
Shuzhi took the milk, looked at the moonlight reflected on the glass, and suddenly asked, "Dai Yuzhuo, do you still love her?"
Dai Yuzhuo stiffened for a moment, remained silent for a long time, and then said softly, "Let bygones be bygones." He walked to the bay window and looked at the night sky outside. "It's good as it is now."
Shuzhi didn't press further, simply sipping her milk. Moonlight bathed them both, the silence so profound that only their breathing could be heard. She didn't know if Dai Yuzhuo's "this is good" referred to the current tranquility or to her ability to stay by his side; she also didn't know that the "she" in those records was actually herself. All she knew was that a strange sense of familiarity and jealousy towards "her" were slowly spreading within her.
The rain outside the window drizzled all night, only gradually stopping in the early morning. When Shuzhi got up, she didn't see Dai Yuzhuo in the kitchen. It wasn't until she went into the bedroom that she found him curled up on the bed, his forehead against the pillow, his shoulders trembling slightly.
"What's wrong with you?" Shuzhi stood by the bed, her voice devoid of warmth. She remembered that Dai Yuzhuo had been on the phone on the balcony again last night, and she vaguely heard words like "nausea" and "fatigue." Her displeasure deepened: he must be worried about his "ex-wife" and couldn't even take care of his own health.
Dai Yuzhuo slowly raised his head, his face frighteningly pale, with bloodshot eyes still visible. He pressed his hand to his chest, his voice hoarse: "It's nothing, I probably didn't sleep well last night, I feel a little nauseous." As soon as he finished speaking, he suddenly turned to the side and dry heaved in front of the trash can next to the bed, his shoulders heaving violently, but nothing came out.
Seeing his disheveled appearance, Shuzhi frowned even more. She turned and walked to the wardrobe, took out her coat, and said in a calm tone, "I made plans to go out with friends today. If you're not feeling well, just order some takeout. By the way, if your 'ex-wife' needs any help, don't force yourself to be there."
Dai Yuzhuo's body stiffened, and his gagging stopped. He looked up, his eyes filled with grievance and helplessness: "Shuzhi, I didn't..." He wanted to say that his discomfort had nothing to do with his "ex-wife," that he was carrying their child, but the words caught in his throat as the doctor's instructions prevented him from speaking. The doctor said that his early pregnancy symptoms were severe, and he couldn't afford to have too many emotional fluctuations, especially not to subject Shuzhi to such an impact while she was suffering from amnesia.
Shuzhi ignored his explanation, picked up her bag, and headed for the door. As she reached the entrance, she glanced back and saw Dai Yuzhuo still lying on his side, one hand gently protecting his lower abdomen, his face still pale. But the jealousy and misunderstanding in her heart prevented her from feeling any pity; instead, she felt that Dai Yuzhuo had brought this upon himself.
With a bang, the door slammed shut, and the room fell silent once more. Dai Yuzhuo slowly sat up, leaning against the headboard, gently stroking his slightly protruding belly. Tears finally welled up in his eyes and streamed down his face. He remembered his prenatal checkup yesterday; the doctor had said the baby was healthy and told him to rest more. But looking at Shuzhi's indifferent back, he felt a sharp pain in his heart, as if it were being stabbed with needles.
Left with no other choice, he slowly made his way to the kitchen, intending to pour himself a glass of warm water. But as soon as he reached the refrigerator, another wave of nausea hit him. He leaned against the refrigerator door, bent over, and began to dry heave, tears streaming down his face uncontrollably.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally recovered, poured himself a glass of warm water, and sipped it slowly. Looking at the gloomy sky outside the window, he remembered how, before Shuzhi lost her memory, she would always stay by his side when he was sick, bringing him water and medicine, and constantly reminding him to take care of himself. But now, she not only ignored his discomfort but was also preoccupied with a non-existent "ex-wife."
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