Chapter 27
Qiu Yayu's funeral was held on a gloomy morning. A light drizzle fell, wetting every silent leaf in the cemetery and the black clothes on the shoulders of those who came to pay their respects. Lü Xiaoyan stood at the outermost edge of the crowd, wearing an inappropriate, slightly oversized black suit—borrowed at the last minute. He stood ramrod straight, like a stone statue soaked by the rain, his face expressionless, his eyes vacant as he stared at the small tombstone surrounded by flowers in front of him.
He didn't shed a tear. From the day he identified the body, his tear ducts seemed to have completely dried up. All his grief had been internalized into something deeper, silent, weighing heavily on his internal organs.
Qiu's mother nearly fainted several times from crying and had to be supported by relatives and friends. Qiu's father seemed to have aged ten years overnight, and his back was no longer straight. When they saw Lü Xiaoyan, they wanted to come over and say something to him, but their lips moved a few times, and in the end, they could only shake their heads weakly with red eyes.
Lü Xiaoyan did not step forward. He felt like a jinx who had brought bad luck, unworthy of any comfort, and unworthy to approach that final resting place that belonged to her.
After the funeral, people gradually dispersed. Lü Xiaoyan remained standing in the same spot until only he, the newly piled mound of earth, and the black-and-white photograph of her smiling face on the tombstone remained in the cemetery.
Rain streamed down his hair, sliding across his cold cheeks. He slowly walked forward, knelt down, and reached out, his fingertips trembling, gently touching her bright smile in the photograph. His hand felt cold and hard.
"I'm sorry..." he finally spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping, "...I couldn't protect you."
The only response he received was the patter of rain and the mournful sound of the wind blowing through the pines and cypresses.
He didn't attend the subsequent thank-you banquet and returned to school alone. The campus was eerily empty during the holidays. Every familiar scene—the corner of the library, the benches by the lake, the ginkgo avenue, even their usual seats in the cafeteria—became a silent execution ground, slowly torturing his already battered heart.
But he did not run away. Like a paranoid archaeologist, he began to frantically and systematically "collect" all evidence of Qiu Yayu's existence.
He returned to the darkroom.
The place remained exactly as it had been before they left school, only the familiar chemical smell in the air now carried an old, deathly odor. He didn't turn on the main light, but only switched on the dim red safety light. The crimson light cast an ominous shadow over everything.
He opened the cabinet where the negatives were stored and began to organize all the photos he had taken of her.
From the very first photo, "The Way Autumn Is Living"—under the sycamore tree, the moment she looked up to catch a falling leaf, her eyes were clear and her smile was serene.
During military training, her profile showed her standing tall under the scorching sun, drenched in sweat, yet with a determined gaze.
In the darkroom, she watched with curiosity as he developed the photographs, their soft outlines illuminated by red light.
When they arrived in the old town, she followed behind him, her eyes filled with a sense of exploration.
At the botanical garden, she turned around amidst the sea of flowers, her smile brighter than the spring sunshine.
Under the starry sky, as she gazed up at the Milky Way, her expression was one of awe and focused concentration…
There are countless other everyday moments—dozing off in the library, eating with puffed-out cheeks in the cafeteria, or suddenly jumping up and down while walking down the street…
Each negative is a frozen, vivid image of her.
Lu Xiaoyan examined, developed, and enlarged each sheet one by one. His movements were mechanical and precise, as if performing a sacred ritual that allowed no mistakes. The only sounds in the darkroom were the ticking of the timer and the subtle sloshing of the chemicals. He was immersed in the red light and shadow, as if he had retreated into a space that belonged only to him and her, isolated from the harsh reality outside.
He carefully pasted the developed photos, in chronological order, into a huge, blank photo album. With each photo, his fingertips would linger for a moment on the smooth photographic paper, as if he could still feel the flutter in his heart when he pressed the shutter.
However, when he turned to the last few pages of the album, ready to paste the photos they had taken during their final days before leaving school, his hand stopped.
The next square is empty.
There are no more new photos to fill the space.
Her time was forever frozen on that late summer night.
This realization, like a cold awl, unexpectedly pierced the fragile barrier he had built with his busy schedule. He slammed the photo album shut, his chest heaving violently. The immense emptiness and despair he had forcibly suppressed, like a black tide, instantly overwhelmed him.
He leaned against the cold workbench in the deathly silent, darkroom, where only the red light flickered, and for the first time let out a low, hoarse, broken sob, like that of a wounded beast. There were no tears, only a agonizing hiss squeezed from his throat.
He collected all the images of her, but he lost the soul behind those images forever.
From then on, his lens captured only memories.
And in his world, there was only autumn that no longer included her.
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