Even my palms felt a little cold, like I was holding a small ice cube that had just been taken out of the refrigerator.
Believe it or not, a female celebrity who suddenly appears in a cemetery and lives in the spotlight talks about her private past with Qianluo and can even see through my little actions hidden in my pocket.
But a voice inside me stubbornly says: Believe her.
This feeling came out of nowhere, yet it was like a plant with very deep roots, giving rise to a strange certainty amidst the panic and doubt in my mind.
The calmness in her eyes was so genuine; there was no shifty look when she was lying, nor any deliberate pause when she was making up a story.
Even the familiar intimacy in his tone when mentioning Qianluo carried a naturalness that no one else could fake, as if he were talking about his closest family member.
Finally, I let go, leaving the alarm to lie quietly in my pocket.
The metal shell pressed against my pants, and the cool touch seeped through the fabric, which calmed my chaotic thoughts a little.
I desperately want to know the answer, to know what kind of past she and Qianluo had.
I want to know even more why those memories that I thought were etched into my bones were slowly blown away by the wind like sand paintings—I clearly remember the morning light falling on her eyelashes.
I remember the way her arms wrapped around my back when she hugged me—just the right amount of pressure, just enough for me to hear her heartbeat.
I remember her humming "Later" off-key while cooking, and I haven't forgotten her little habits, like always tiptoeing when chopping vegetables and never peeling tomatoes.
Why would I suddenly stare blankly at myself in the mirror one morning, even having to frown and think for a long time to vaguely remember whether the dimple on the left corner of my mouth was deep or shallow when I smiled?
Once, while tidying up her police uniform, she paused for two seconds when she saw the two bars and one star on her shoulder insignia before realizing that this was the rank of First Superintendent she had earned after months of hard work and solving five major cases.
It was the thing she cherished most during her life; every time she cleaned her police uniform, she would make sure to polish the epaulets until they shone.
The evening breeze carried the damp scent of grass and leaves, mixed with the cool fragrance of pine and cypress, and the faint aroma of osmanthus wafting from afar.
The chill of the ground seeped into my bones through my thin trousers, making my knees feel stiff. I subconsciously pulled the hem of my shirt up to my knees.
My fingertips touched the wrinkles on the pants and I realized that these were jeans that I had just washed yesterday—Qianluo used to fold my pants for me, and she always said that I folded them like a ball of waste paper.
I gazed at Qianluo's tombstone; the police badge at the top gleamed coldly in the last rays of daylight, its edges sharp and distinct.
Just like when she used to stake out suspects, her sharp eyes never went out, even after staying up all night and with bloodshot eyes, they still showed a spirit of never giving up.
Even the suspects were afraid of her unwavering gaze.
Xin Ziming drank cup after cup, and the liquid in the wine pot decreased at a visible rate, from more than half a pot to less than half a pot, and then to only a little bit left.
The amber-colored liquid gradually lightened, eventually becoming somewhat cloudy when poured out.
She drank quietly, without making any unnecessary movements, except that her glass occasionally touched the stone base of the tombstone, making a soft "tinkling" sound.
The ripples spread through the silent cemetery, only to be quickly dispersed by the wind, leaving no trace. Even the echoes were so faint as to seem like an illusion, with only the rustling of pine needles lingering in the air.
She turned the wine pot upside down, shook it, and listened to the empty "splashing" sound inside, without pouring out another drop of wine.
As soon as he put the empty pot aside, it hit the grass with a soft "thud," startling a small insect that was pecking at grass seeds at his feet.
The insect, grayish-brown, fluttered its wings and burrowed deep into the grass, leaving no trace.
I could no longer suppress the doubts in my heart, and a sense of inexplicable grievance. My voice trembled without me even realizing it.
Like a child who has been wronged but has no one to confide in: "Didn't you come to see her? How come... you didn't even leave her half a cup? You could have at least poured it on the stone platform in front of the tombstone."
I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth.
The question was too naive and too serious, as if it were about some trivial matter. But watching her drink the whole pot of wine by herself, without even glancing at the tombstone for a moment, made me realize how naive and serious she was.
A pang of sadness welled up inside me.
Xin Ziming raised an eyebrow at me, a nonchalant smile playing on her lips, but her eyes held little warmth, instead tinged with self-deprecation, and even her tone was somewhat perfunctory.
"This girl doesn't know how to drink. She used to get drunk even from the lowest alcohol content fruit wine and would cling to me and chatter for half the night."
"I just wanted to find a secluded spot to sneak a few drinks, so my assistant wouldn't nag me about 'damaging my image.' Having to calculate the calories in every sip of alcohol is so annoying."
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