It's been so long that she can watch the jasmine planted on the balcony sprout and bloom year after year, and she can pick the most fragrant flower and tuck it into her hair, then twirl around in front of the mirror.
The skirt rustles as it brushes the floor, and she makes funny faces at her reflection in the mirror, no longer needing to squat on the balcony with a flowerpot in her arms.
She muttered to herself, "She left before the flowers even bloomed. Will A-Yun forget that I like the scent of jasmine? Will she think of other people when she sees other flowers?"
It's been so long that we've forgotten all about our past promises, like "Let's go see the sea together" and "Let's raise an orange cat named 'Nian Gao'."
"Let's save up money to buy a small house with a balcony. We'll put two rattan chairs on the balcony, one for my easel and the other for your forensic notes."
"In the summer, we would lie on wicker chairs, eat watermelon, and watch the stars," and all of these wishes came true.
To truly live "forever" as real, tangible moments is the kiss she secretly places on my face when we wake up together in the morning.
It was when we were cooking together in the evening, and she stuck out her tongue after burning the scrambled eggs with tomatoes.
It was the warmth of her putting my hands into her pockets when we warmed each other's hands together in winter.
Instead of remaining in memories, fragile fragments that shatter at the slightest touch, easily blown away by the wind, impossible to grasp.
I'd like to ask her if such a bright and cheerful person could finally escape those cold, sharp blades and hasty sacrifices—no longer needing to carry leaflets printed with "Save the Nation and Preserve the Nation".
Running through the bluestone alleys of the Republic of China era amidst a hail of bullets, the cuffs of his blue cloth shirt fluttered in the wind, and he didn't bother to wipe the mud off his hair.
Just to pass on hope to more people.
She no longer had to fall under the old locust tree at the alley entrance in the prime of her early twenties, her blood mixing with the rainwater to form a river, staining the leaflets she carried in her arms red.
She didn't even have time to say, "Ah-Yun, I'm afraid of the dark, can you come pick me up? I haven't had a chance to say goodbye properly."
No more leaving with regrets, leaving those who love her trapped in memories, endlessly torn apart—calling her name into an empty room, only to receive an echo in return.
Even her breath slowly dissipated.
I stared blankly at the off-white scarf she left behind, reluctant to even wash it, afraid of washing away the faint lemon scent on her body, afraid of washing away the only remaining connection between us.
When I see a figure that resembles her while investigating a case, my heart skips a beat, thinking that she has returned. But it turns out to be nothing, and that sense of loss overwhelms me like a tidal wave.
I want to ask fate if it could be kind to her just this once, and not let her be like a gust of wind or a fleeting cherry blossom in every lifetime.
It blows by in a hurry and then disperses; it blooms in a hurry and then withers away, without even a moment to linger.
She deserves to be bathed in the warmest midday sun, deserves to be gently embraced by the long, tender years, and deserves to be pampered like a child who never has to grow up.
I remember she doesn't eat cilantro, she wants tomato broth for hot pot, and she also has to add double the amount of cheese rice cakes, saying, "Cheese is power, it can keep me drawing all afternoon."
I remember she loved listening to light music. As soon as the intro started, she would sway her head like a little penguin swaying to the rhythm. She would also pull others to sway with her, saying, "That's what makes it lively."
I remember she would kick off the covers when she slept, and I had to tuck her in at night, otherwise she would sneeze the next day and stay in bed saying, "It's all your fault for not covering me up properly."
I remember when she was angry, she would puff out her cheeks and ignore people, but as long as you gave her a jasmine candy, she would calm down and say proudly, "I'll forgive you this time, but don't do it again."
I remember all her little quirks and quirks, and I remember how she lived her life like a piece of honey, sweet to the core.
Such goodness should not be constantly crushed into powder by impermanence, scattered in the wind without leaving a trace.
Xin Ziming's impatience vanished instantly, like clouds scattered by the evening breeze, even the wrinkles on her brows smoothed out.
The movement of my fingertips tracing the edge of the table slowed down, becoming gentle and cautious, as if afraid of shattering the tranquility in the air or disturbing the anticipation in my heart.
A soft light rippled in her eyes, like scattered stardust, or like mutton fat jade soaked in warm water.
Even the originally sharp features have become gentler, and even the fine lines at the corners of the eyes exude warmth, like a cotton quilt that has been thoroughly dried in the winter sun.
She looked at me, remained silent for two seconds, then her gaze gently fell on my reddened eyes, as if confirming my vulnerability, and suddenly she smiled.
The smile spread from the corner of his eyes, carrying an almost solemn certainty. When he nodded slightly, the stray hairs at his temples swayed as if gently brushed by the wind.
"Yes, she will be happy, she will grow up safely, she will go to school with her hair in pigtails, and a little bell will hang on her cloth bag, jingling as she walks, and you can hear her voice from far away."
These short words, like a stabilizing anchor, settled steadily into the surging waves of my heart.
The pent-up frustration that had been building up for so long quietly dissipated, like fog swept away by the evening breeze.
Even on those sleepless nights until dawn, I would hold her off-white scarf and smell the faint lemon scent that lingered on it.
I kept thinking, "Did she really come? Was I having a long dream, and she was still by my side when I woke up?"
She would call me "A-Yun" with a smile, stuff jasmine candy into my pocket, and drag me to eat tomato beef brisket noodles. She would also stare blankly at her scarf.
As I touched the hot pot oil stains on the corner of her collar, she laughed and came over to show me the stains.
"Ah-Yun, look! I spilled soup on my scarf. From now on, this will be our 'commemorative badge,' and no one else will have it!"
She even kissed me on the cheek, leaving a faint lipstick mark. At the time, I thought she was childish, but now I think that lipstick mark is so precious.
In moments of distraction while investigating a case, I would see the profile of a young girl on the autopsy table who bore a resemblance to Qianluo, and I would subconsciously recall her smiling face.
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