Grandpa Zhang called out from afar, "Young lady, it's getting dark, you should go home!" I responded, but didn't move—I didn't want to leave.
Perhaps it was out of guilt, guilt that he couldn't even remember how deep the dimples at the corners of her eyes were when she smiled.
Perhaps it's an attempt to deceive oneself, to fool this slowly cooling heart: Look, you can still accurately find her tombstone, you can still say her name, you haven't forgotten.
I whispered to the tombstone, "Qianluo, the sunset is beautiful tonight, just like the one you wore when you came back from your last mission."
It was the same orange-red color that day; you even said it looked like the pumpkin porridge I overcooked.
The last time she came back, it was a rainy evening. The rain was heavy, and it was pattering against the window.
I was hunched over my desk revising an autopsy report when I suddenly heard a knock on the door. When I opened it, I saw her standing there, completely soaked.
His black police uniform was stained with mud and had a hole in the cuff, but he smiled and pulled out a bag of roasted chestnuts wrapped in three layers of plastic from his pocket.
"I passed by the restaurant you like to eat at, and waited in line for twenty minutes. Luckily, it wasn't cold yet."
I took her hand and showed her the sunset on the horizon, where the clouds were dyed golden-red, as if they were on fire.
She leaned on my shoulder, pinched my cheek with her dry hand, and said in a slightly hoarse and tired voice, "The sunset is nothing compared to you. Even your burnt pumpkin porridge is cuter."
Was the tone of that sentence light or hoarse? Was the temperature of those fingertips on your cheek cool or warm?
Is the sweet aroma of those chestnuts a hint of burnt flavor or the steam from when they were just out of the pan?
I tried desperately to think, but all I could see in my mind was a blurry image, as if it were covered by frosted glass.
The wind rose again, rustling the pine needles, as if she were responding, or perhaps sighing.
I raised my hand and touched the police badge on the tombstone, my fingertips brushing against the cold bronze surface, and said softly.
"Next time you come, I'll bring you some roasted chestnuts. Just buy from the same shop as last time, it's okay if the line is a little longer."
Just like countless evenings before, she would lean against the sofa, watching me organize my dissection tools as she spoke.
"When I retire, I'll accompany you to see the sunset every day and eat all the snacks in the alley."
"If you get tired of dissecting, I'll cook you pumpkin porridge, I promise it won't get mushy."
Back then, we all thought retirement was just around the corner, but little did we know that her "retirement" would be forever frozen in the summer of her twenty-fifth year, frozen in that rainy night without a sunset.
As dusk deepened, the city lights in the distance came on, twinkling in the darkness.
Her feet were numb and she couldn't feel them anymore. From her ankles to her knees, they felt heavy and stiff, as if they were filled with lead, firmly nailed to Qianluo's tombstone.
The cold lines of the police badge still lingered on her fingertips, but her memories of her were like cotton wool swollen by twilight, blurry and impossible to grasp.
I can't even recall if she liked this quietness surrounded by the sound of pine trees.
As the last rays of the setting sun sank behind the dark green mountain valleys, the golden-red flames completely disappeared behind the treetops, and twilight spread like the rising tide.
It first soaked my ankles, then climbed up, wetting the folds of my trouser legs, carrying the unique coolness of the mountains, and wrapped around my calves.
Just then, a voice suddenly sounded behind me—clear and cool, yet with a strange gentleness.
Like an icy spring flowing through a mountain stream in the depths of winter, water droplets crash against the stone surface, shattering into delicate yet clear echoes that reverberate throughout the silent cemetery.
"There's no need to doubt yourself."
If Qianluo knew, she would never blame you. Your relationship was destined to last only this one chapter, like the candle flame on a paper lantern; once it burned out, it was time to part.
Forgetting wasn't your fault.
The voice was so abrupt, as if it had appeared out of nowhere in the twilight. I didn't even have the mind to appreciate the clear and melodious tone; my heart was gripped tightly by the strangeness in the words.
What does it mean to say "there was only one chance for love"? Does it mean that the bonds between people are like candles whose lifespan is predetermined, and once they burn out, all we can do is accept our fate?
And what does "forgetting it wasn't your fault" mean? Does it mean that even the guilt I feel is unnecessary?
These words were like a blunt knife, stabbing dully into my heart, stirring up self-criticisms that even doctors had never heard of.
I always felt that forgetting her would be a betrayal of her.
I turned around abruptly, the movement was so sudden that my numb leg throbbed with pain.
In the twilight, I was struck by a pair of clear eyes—eyes so bright, like stars reflected in a cold pool.
Even though it had already darkened around us, and only a trace of orange-red remained on the horizon, those eyes shone with a cold yet clear light that fell directly on my face.
It was as if it could see through the panic hidden in my eyes, the hesitation I felt when clutching the time off slip, and the hypocrisy I showed when I shed tears in front of the tombstone.
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