The lights of the high-rise buildings flickered, and the traffic flowed like a glowing river, carrying the hustle and bustle of the city.
Gradually, the area returned to a quiet suburb, with streetlights becoming sparse and even car horns becoming less frequent.
The streetlights cast long streaks of light across the car window, almost blindingly bright. I stared at those flowing lights, but her words at the cemetery kept replaying in my mind—
"Another untimely death," "Live well over there," "Wait until she's gone before keeping her company."
Each word was like a hook, hooking at one's mind and making one uneasy. Even the fingertips unconsciously clenched the hem of their clothes, the fabric was crumpled and wrinkled, leaving deep fingerprints.
As soon as the car entered a villa area surrounded by green trees, the security guard at the gate simply checked the license plate and raised the barrier without asking any further questions.
As you pass through the archway covered with pink and white roses, you can smell a faint fragrance of flowers, sweet but not cloying.
The tires made a soft "gurgling" sound as they rolled over the stone pavement before finally stopping in front of a small brick building.
I followed her out of the car, somewhat dazed, and looked at the house in front of me—the gray brick walls were neatly built, and a few tiny moss plants grew in the cracks between the bricks, exuding the warmth of time.
A few magnolia branches peeked out from the top of the wall, their petals unfurled, bathed in moonlight that cast a soft white glow, even their shadows exuding tenderness.
This is far from what I imagined Xin Ziming's residence to be: I thought it would be decorated in a minimalist and cold style, full of the sophistication and aloofness of a celebrity.
Expensive artworks hung on the walls, and the air was filled with the cool scent of high-end fragrances.
But I never expected it to have such a down-to-earth, everyday feel, like an old house in the old city that has been carefully preserved for many years.
The scent of time seems to linger at the base of the wall, making one feel a sense of familiarity and even easing tension.
As I opened the door, a faint, sweet fragrance wafted towards me. It wasn't a strong perfume, nor the cool scent of expensive aromatherapy.
It's like freshly cooked osmanthus-flavored lotus root drying in the house, its sweet aroma carrying the refreshing scent of lotus root, mixed with a hint of dried jasmine fragrance, filling the air with a clean and refreshing feeling.
When it enters the nasal cavity, it brings a strange sense of peace, and even the panic in one's heart fades a bit.
The Chinese-style mahogany furniture in the room was polished to a shine, the wood grain exuding the warmth of time, and the armrests were smooth from years of handling, carrying the warmth of human touch.
A traditional Chinese ink painting of orchids hangs on the wall. The brushstrokes are elegant, and the ink tones are just right, clearly showing that it was painted with care.
Next to it was a line of small characters, written in delicate handwriting, which read, "Orchids grow in secluded valleys, their fragrance undiminished by the absence of people."
A few fresh daisies were placed in a celadon vase in the corner, their white petals still glistening with water droplets, as if they had just been picked from the yard.
The leaves on the flower stem were still damp, and the veins of the leaves were clearly visible.
Everywhere you look, there's a warm and thoughtful touch; it doesn't feel like a temporary place to stay, but rather like a real "home".
It has the warmth of life, the aroma of everyday life, and the care hidden in the details.
"What are you standing there for?" Xin Zimo turned to look at me, a faint smile on her lips, her eyes no longer mocking, only peaceful.
Even the mole at the corner of her eye seemed gentler. "Come in, it's chilly outside, don't catch a cold—the temperature difference at night is big, and you're not dressed warmly enough."
I followed her up to the second floor. The wooden stairs made a slight creaking sound when I stepped on them, very soft, yet full of life.
Unlike the cold and rigid staircases of modern villas, these staircases seem to be telling stories of everyday life.
She pushed open a carved wooden door. The lintel was carved with simple intertwined branches, and the faint scent of wood wax lingered in the patterns. There was no ostentatious decoration, but it exuded elegance.
Behind the door was a study: bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with books, including thick criminal investigation files and forensic anatomy monographs.
There were also sticky notes on the cover with scattered annotations, the handwriting similar to the inscription on the orchid painting on the wall. There were also yellowed old poetry collections and thread-bound ancient books, all arranged neatly.
There was no dust on the spines of the books, indicating that they were frequently read; a pear wood desk was placed near the window, with a plain cotton and linen tablecloth on the tabletop, and small orchid patterns embroidered on the edges.
The ink in the inkstone seemed to be freshly ground, emitting a faint ink fragrance, and next to it was a wolf-hair brush without its cap on.
The ink on the pen tip was still wet, as if the writing had just finished, and even the paper still had faint ink marks.
She sat down in the armchair behind the desk and reached for a white porcelain teacup from the purple clay tea tray beside her—the cup was decorated with light bamboo shadows, exquisite yet understated.
She first warmed the cup with hot water, the water flowing over the cup making a soft "splashing" sound, and then poured in the freshly brewed tea.
The tea leaves slowly unfurled in the water, releasing a delicate fragrance, and wisps of steam rose gently.
In the misty air, her features softened considerably, and her eyes were warmer than when she was in the cemetery.
Even the melancholy that had been hidden in his eyes had faded somewhat, as if it had been melted away by the steam of the tea, losing its sharp coldness.
I held the warm teacup, my fingertips enveloped in its warmth, which even eased some of my unease.
Finally, I raised my eyes and fixed my gaze on her face without flinching or hesitating.
The questions that had been swirling all the way, like clouds filled with water, could no longer hold back and were about to fall—about Qianluo's past "another untimely death".
As for why I slowly forgot those details of her that were etched into my bones.
For example, the deeper dimple on the left corner of her mouth when she smiles, the two spoonfuls of sugar she always adds when making coffee, and the fact that she always rolls up her sleeves to her forearms when she wears her police uniform.
Furthermore, what exactly does this "different world" she spoke of look like, and can it truly allow the deceased to "live well"?
Is it really possible to wait for the living to "come back to keep us company"?
I need a clear answer, an answer that can dispel all my confusion and stop me from being awakened by nightmares of "Forgetting Qianluo" every night.
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