Final Chapter
Those nights, time seemed to slow down on purpose. The elevator only beeped when it stopped at the floor level, the metallic sound from the lock very soft. Not all the lights were on in the apartment, only one in the hallway, illuminating a warm path in the living room. There were still damp patches on the edge of the dining table, like a thin layer of frost. The small calendar on the refrigerator door was covered in dense red markings, the last column folded up at one corner—no one mentioned it.
They had agreed long ago—to part ways in the spring. During the day, they were each busy with their own things: he went from one meeting to the next at the company; she was in her studio, layering paint. In the evenings, they simply spent time together; whoever got home first would boil the water, and whoever had free hands would turn on the range hood. Their conversations were limited to the day: the cat downstairs had moved to a different place, the new noodle shop on the corner wasn't so great, and the canvas was still missing a highlight. As for "the future," they tacitly avoided mentioning it, not wanting to bring it inside the house.
She painted very late that day, and two dots of paint smudged onto her cheeks, like two tiny finger marks. When she came out after washing her hands, he was sitting in the living room looking at her sketchbook, turning the pages slowly, as if memorizing every stroke. She leaned over, wrapped her arms around him from behind, and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder: "Is it pretty?"
"You look beautiful." He put down the book, turned around and tapped her forehead, his voice low, "You look even more beautiful."
She laughed, let go of his hand, and sat down on his lap like a little fox that had found its place as soon as it landed. She poked his chest with her fingertip: "How's your mood today?"
"So-so." He pulled her closer to him, his palm against her back as if afraid she would fall. "But it's better now."
She understood what he meant by "okay," so she stopped asking about the company. She got up to pour water: "Have a sip of something hot, don't just sit around doing nothing." He took the cup, felt that her fingertips were a little cold, so he casually wrapped her hand in his own, warming it for a while before letting go.
After washing up, the two lay back in bed. The curtains weren't fully drawn, and a sliver of light shone through the large screen on the building outside, casting a thin layer of blue hue in the room. He turned and pulled her into his arms, his nose brushing against the clean scent of her hair. "Sleep."
She softly murmured an "Mmm" near his collarbone, like a tiny feather placed in his throat. She didn't say "Goodnight" or "Sweet dreams." She simply placed her hand in his palm, palm to palm, their fingers slowly intertwining.
The lights were off, and the room became quieter. She was the first to fall asleep, her breathing steady, rhythmic, like the gentle lapping of the sea against the shore in the night. He didn't fall asleep as quickly; he stared blankly at the ceiling for a while, the fragments of the day still swirling in his mind. As they swirled, he drifted away, as if his entire being was slowly sinking into an unseen place.
The dream began with a chill. It felt like a sudden gust of wind blew against his chest. Before him lay the seawall he'd walked so many times before; the night obscured the distance, only white waves crashing upwards, one after another. The railing was icy; he didn't know where to put his hands, finally clenching them tightly until his knuckles turned white. In his dream, he called her name, his voice hoarse, his sound like it had been soaked in water, dissipating. "Don't go." He reached out to grab her, grasping only the wind, grasping only the cold trail left by the receding waves. He saw her wearing that red coat, standing behind the railing, her face half-hidden in her scarf as before, her eyes bright, but she took a step back.
"Don't go." This time he shouted even louder, a sharp pain shooting through his chest. He ran over; voices carried on the wind, noisy, fragmented, indistinct. He was focused on pulling her close, but his arm felt like it was being held back—not by a person, but by a force that only exists in reality, like a contract, a meeting, a pile of numbers falling from a screen. He panicked, forcefully breaking free, finally touching her. In that embrace, he leaned forward, as if crashing into his own chest. "Don't go, Fox, don't go."
She didn't speak, but raised her hand and touched his face; her palm was warm. Her lips moved, as if to say "I'm here," but the next second, the light suddenly went out, and the sea turned completely black. He felt a void in his heart, and his whole body began to fall.
As he fell in his dream, his eyes welled up with tears. Not a loud sob, but the kind of tears that had been held back for a long time suddenly overflowing uncontrollably. Waves of wind crashed against him in the dream, and in the final moment, he shouted with all his might, "Don't go—"
He suddenly woke up.
The room remained as quiet as ever. The large screen outside the window changed its image; the blue light transformed into a warmer glow. His heart pounded repeatedly, as if someone were knocking on the door from the inside. It took him two seconds to regain his breath and notice a small damp patch on his shoulder, as if a tear had frozen there.
He didn't move, afraid of waking her. She was still asleep in his arms, her breathing steady, just like before. After a while, he raised his hand, backlit, and gently rubbed his finger near the corner of his eye. His throat was dry, and he called her softly, "Fox."
She wasn't fully awake, as if she had just swum a very short distance in the water; her eyelashes fluttered: "Hmm?"
"It's nothing." He pressed his forehead against hers, his voice soft. "I had a dream."
She raised her hand and touched his face, first feeling a little dampness. She paused, not asking about the dream's content, but simply pulling him a little closer to her: "It's over."
He hummed again, as if slowly pushing the lingering unease back down his throat. He hugged her tighter, his chest heaving, until finally the pressure subsided.
The next morning, he got up early as usual. She was still asleep, and he didn't have the heart to wake her. He simply pulled the blanket up and brushed her messy hair to the other side of the pillow. Before leaving, he gently touched her forehead and stepped back very quietly. The door closed so softly it was almost inaudible.
As soon as he arrived at the company, he reverted to his cold demeanor. The phone rang incessantly, and Xiao Zhou stood by the door with a stack of documents, seeking approval.
Xiao Zhou came in and placed the file basket on the corner of the table: "These need to be signed today."
He didn't sit down properly; his coat was hanging on the back of the chair, and he was using a stylus to mark and stamp items on the tablet. His words were brief: "Pay for what you can afford first, freeze non-core purchases, and use version B for external communication."
Xiao Zhou made a note of it and was about to leave when he remembered something and leaned back: "Mr. Mu, would you like me to help you avoid them at noon?"
"No need, just arrange it as is. I'll handle it myself."
He's always been able to handle pressure. But today, that feeling kept rising within him, only to be forcefully suppressed as it reached his throat. In the brief ten minutes or so of lunchtime, instead of leaning back in his chair, he walked to the French windows, picked up his now-cold coffee, and took a sip. He rubbed his thumb back and forth on the cup, as if trying to wear away a bit of the sea breeze from last night's dream.
Rain came in the afternoon. Watermarks rippled across the glass, and the conference room lights reflected off the surface, making him look even colder. The meeting ended, and he walked out. His phone showed several unread messages. He didn't reply immediately; instead, he went to the restroom and splashed cold water on his burning eyes. Looking in the mirror, he saw a person with a faint expression, close-set eyes, as if he were keeping himself tightly closed off.
He came home on time as usual that evening. As soon as he opened the door, the water in the pot was boiling, steam rising upwards. He changed his shoes and went into the kitchen, pulling her close from behind, his nose brushing against the soft skin behind her ear: "What do you want to eat today?"
"You chop the scallions," she laughed. "I'll make the noodles."
"Okay." He washed the scallions and chopped them finely, one by one. She put the noodles into the pot, and the snow-white clumps tumbled in the boiling water like a group of tiny clouds. He pushed the chopped scallions over, and she took them and sprinkled them on the soup, immediately releasing a fragrant aroma.
After the dishes were placed on the table, she pushed his bowl towards him first: "Have a few more bites." He lowered his head and took a sip of soup. The dryness in his throat was finally relieved by the small sip of heat. He slowly exhaled and looked up at her: "Delicious."
"Then eat more." She picked up a piece of noodles for him with her chopsticks, and then moved a floating leaf of vegetables in her bowl to her side, as if it were a small, imperceptible act of favoritism. He didn't say anything, but just pushed her bowl forward a little so that she could reach it more comfortably.
After they finished eating, the two cleared the table. She washed the dishes, and he wiped the table. The water tapped softly in the steel sink. He wrung out the rag, turned to look at her, and she put the last bowl upside down on the shelf, then winked at him.
"Want to go for a walk?" she asked.
"Let's go." He took the keys and his coat, and casually wrapped her scarf tighter around his neck. The wind downstairs was gentler than he had imagined; the sycamore trees along the roadside folded their branches, and the streetlights moved forward one by one. The two walked in silence for two blocks before she reached out and hooked her arm around his, their fingers slowly intertwining. He smiled slightly, said nothing, but tightened his grip on her hand.
Back home, it was a little deeper. She went to wash first, while he waited in the living room, picking up the half-finished painting she'd been working on during the day—a fox crouching in the woods, its eyes bright, but not smiling. He looked at it for a moment, then pursed his lips. When she came out, he put the painting back on the easel and went to wash it himself. By the time the water stopped, she had already made the bed and drawn the curtains halfway, letting a little darkness in.
The light went out again. The room was just as quiet. This time he fell asleep quickly, without that sinking cold, only a peaceful drowsiness. Before he drifted off, he thought about her earlier words, "I will," and the way she had written on his palm with her fingertips. It was as if someone had lit a lamp for him in the darkness.
Days passed by like this. During the day, he adjusted his pace, being firm where necessary and yielding where appropriate; she finished each painting, mailed out what needed to be mailed, and neatly folded the ones she wanted to keep by her side against the wall. Occasionally, she would draw a red line on the small calendar on the refrigerator, and occasionally he would write a line in his memo book: "Walk at nine tonight" or "Buy flowers on Friday." They were both very restrained, avoiding the topic of "later" and not bringing "June" out to air on the table.
Occasionally, a breeze would blow through his dreams at night. He wasn't always woken by it. Sometimes he would grasp her hand in his dreams, as if he had grabbed onto the shore; sometimes he would wake up and hold her tightly. She wouldn't ask, but would gently pat his chest twice, as if saying to a wolf that had finally sheathed its teeth—"Alright, go to sleep."
Two bowls were upside down on the table, the paint in the studio was still dry, and coats were neatly hung behind the door.
Neither of us mentioned "the future" anymore; we simply held each other tighter in our palms—like practicing letting go.
When the last three squares of the small calendar are crossed out, morning will arrive early: she will first draw light on the balcony, and he will whisper an "Mmm" at the door.
Later, in Chapter Two, you hear the sound of a door closing, cutting the world in two.
Let's not say goodbye tonight, let's keep the lights on for now.
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