Autumn in Provence always carries a lingering languor. The harvested lavender fields reveal brown soil, yet tiny specks of purple still cling to the heels of shoes, releasing a bittersweet fragrance with every step. Zhong Hua spread the last bunch of rosemary in a bamboo tray, her fingertips itching from the prickly stems. Only then did she remember what A Yu had said that morning when she helped her remove her ring: "I should get you some silver nail guards."
When she turned around, the man was standing at the top of the wooden ladder, holding a polished copper plate in his hand. It was a nameplate made from an old key left by his father, its edges sanded smooth for three months until the original serrations were no longer visible. Ayu lowered her head and swayed towards her. Sunlight streamed through the back of his ear, illuminating the three initials on the copper plate—A, Z, and L—like three stars nailed to time.
"Be careful." Zhong Hua stood up and patted the straw clippings off his apron. The bamboo clips had left a small mark in his pocket. The red string they tied in Tibet three years ago had long since turned white from being soaked in laundry detergent and broken in two. Now, the silver rings on their ring fingers were often coated with a warm glow by the sunlight, and they would make a clinking sound when they touched.
The wind suddenly shifted, and the wind chimes by the door began to jingle erratically. The chimes were made from the bottom of wine bottles, each glass pane adorned with a small photograph: prayer flags on snow-capped mountains, a Parisian sunset, the frosty windows of the guesthouse after the first snowfall. Zhong Hua looked up and saw a silver-gray sedan crunching along the gravel road, the dust kicked up by its wheels carrying a hint of the sour scent of distant vineyards.
As the woman stepped out of the car, the hem of her trench coat swept across the door, carrying a faint scent of iris. Zhong Hua recognized the scent; it was the perfume Lin Wanqing used to frequently wear, with a subtle hint of bitter almond in the dry down. The leather suitcase she carried had white scratches on the edges, covered with airport tags from around the world, the bottom one worn down to just half an Eiffel Tower.
"Are there any rooms available?" The woman's voice was hoarse, carried by the wind, as if it had been exposed to the dry air of a long flight. Sunglasses covered most of her face, revealing only her soft jawline and the faint mole on the corner of her lip—Lin Wanqing's mole was on the left, hers was on the right.
"The innermost room on the second floor." Zhong Hua stepped aside to let her in, the scent of iris still lingering in her nostrils. "You can see the olive trees at the end of the vineyard; their leaves are turning yellow this season."
The woman nodded and followed her up the oak staircase. The staircase was built by Ayu last winter, with a crescent moon carved along the edge of each step, just the right size to fit Zhong Hua's fingertips. When she reached the third step, the woman's trench coat sleeve got caught on a splinter on the handrail. She reached up to untangle it, and the off-white fabric slipped down, revealing a pale wrist.
That scar caught Zhong Hua's eye at that moment.
A light brown scar, like an old mark washed away by rain, meandered from the inside of her wrist to her forearm, its shape strikingly similar to the crescent moon over Montmartre. Zhong Hua's breath hitched, and she suddenly remembered how Lin Wanqing had shown her the scar through the glass outside the ICU three years ago—a crescent-shaped scar like this, a cut from broken glass sustained while trying to retrieve evidence of the Gu family arson case. Back then, Lin Wanqing had smiled and said, "Look, doesn't it look like the stars we drew when we were kids?"
"We're here." Zhong Hua placed the key on the doorknob, his fingertips slightly cold. The keychain was made from a modified camera strap, with a small brass bell hanging from it. It was something Ayu had found at a market in Tibet, and when it was shaken, it sounded like melting snow.
When the woman took off her sunglasses, Zhong Hua stared into her eyes. Her light brown pupils shimmered with amber light, completely different from Lin Wanqing's deep black eyes. But when she smiled, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes shone with light, inexplicably reminding him of a New Year's Eve when Lin Wanqing stood on the African savanna in a video, saying she wanted to give the starry sky as a New Year's gift.
"Thank you." The woman took the keys, her fingertips touching Zhong Hua's hand, which was slightly cool from the journey.
"If you need hot water, there's always some in the kitchen downstairs." As Zhong Hua turned around, he heard the sound of suitcase wheels rolling on the floor behind him, very softly, as if afraid of disturbing something.
The kettle in the kitchen was bubbling away. Ayu was slicing lemons by the sink, the yellow juice splattering on the back of his hand like dappled sunlight. Zhonghua leaned against the doorframe watching him and suddenly noticed that his ears were a little red—they always got hot there when he lied.
“That customer from earlier,” Zhong Hua picked up a glass, the glass still bearing the marks of the mulled wine from that morning, “did you know him?”
Ayu paused, and a lemon seed fell into the water, splashing up a small spray. "I don't recognize it." He squeezed lemon juice into the water bottle, the metal spoon hitting the glass with a clink. "But her suitcase has a Marseille airport tag, with a piece missing from the corner, exactly the same as Lin Wanqing's old one."
Zhong Hua's heart skipped a beat. She remembered when Lin Wanqing sent the plane ticket years ago, a piece of the envelope was missing from the corner, caught on the prison's barbed wire. Back then, Ayu stood in the rain for a long time, holding the ticket until the pages were soggy, still tightly clutching the note in the lining: "Go after the person who fills up your phone's photo album."
“She has a scar on her wrist.” Zhong Hua took the kettle off the stove, the steam hitting his face and feeling a little hot. “It looks a lot like Wanqing’s.”
Ayu was silent for a moment, then suddenly pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket. When he opened it, a silver ring was revealed inside—the very same one he had used three years ago when he proposed in the snowy mountains. The bottom of the box was engraved with Lin Wanqing's words, "May you be happy." "That year in Paris, Wanqing said her scar would change color," he said, tracing the pattern on the ring with his fingertip. "It would turn grayish on cloudy days, and become almost transparent on sunny days."
Zhong Hua gazed out the window. The wind blew lavender field debris into the yard, landing on the clothesline and tangling with her silk scarf. It was an indigo scarf, sent by Lin Wanqing before their wedding, who said she found it at a market in Morocco and that it would protect her from the Provençal winds.
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