"Boss lady," a woman's voice came from the bottom of the stairs, "Could I have another cup of hot water?"
Zhong Hua snapped out of his daze and saw the woman standing at the kitchen doorway. She had changed her trench coat into a beige knitted sweater, and the scar on her wrist appeared lighter under the light. She was holding a photograph in her hand, the edges curled up as if it had been repeatedly rubbed.
“I found this while packing,” the woman said, placing the photo on the bar. “I thought you might want to take a look.”
The photo was taken in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. Three figures are squeezed into the crowd; the man in the middle is holding a camera, the woman on the left is reaching for a pigeon, and the girl on the right is tiptoeing, secretly framing their shadows in her phone. It was taken five years ago after a party, when Lin Wanqing dragged her and Ayu to take it, saying it was "to leave a record of future memories." Zhong Hua remembers that Wanqing wore a burgundy dress that day, the hem sweeping across the steps of Notre Dame like a flowing flame.
“This is…” Zhong Hua’s fingertips traced the back of the girl in the photo, and he suddenly noticed a dark scar on the wrist of the girl on the right.
“It’s my friend’s.” The woman took the hot water, tracing circles on the rim of the cup with her fingertip. “She always says there are three kinds of wind in this photo: the wind of Paris, the wind of the snow-capped mountains, and the wind of Provence.” She paused, looking at the brass sign on the bar. “She says that a good relationship is like these three letters; without any one of them, it’s not a complete relationship.”
Ayu suddenly asked, "Where is your friend now?"
The woman smiled, the mole at the corner of her eye sinking into fine lines: "She built a school in Africa, saying she would come back to visit once the first graduate received their diploma." She took a sip of hot water. "She said that dried lavender flowers here, steeped in honey, can cure all 'unforgettable' feelings."
These words were like a needle, gently piercing the thin layer of calluses in Zhong Hua's heart. Three years ago in Montmartre, she was taking pictures of the sunset with her camera. When she turned around, the first thing she saw in the lens was Ayu. He was soaking wet, clutching the plane ticket Lin Wanqing had sent him. He said, "Wanqing told me to tell you not to always remember the dark things, but to look more at the bright ones."
The evening rain came suddenly, pattering against the tin roof like distant firecrackers. Zhong Hua was making a cream stew in the kitchen; the aroma of melting butter mingled with the scent of basil, filling the room. A Yu added firewood to the fireplace, the firelight casting his shadow on the wall, flickering like the uncertain days when they first met.
"Didn't the guests come down for dinner?" Zhong Hua ladled the stew into earthenware bowls, the rims still bearing the marks of the two of them drinking mulled wine that morning, overlapping and indistinguishable from one another.
“I knocked on the door, but no one answered.” Ayu threw a piece of pine wood into the fireplace, and the flames leaped up. “Maybe she’s tired and has gone to sleep.”
As Zhong Hua carried the tray upstairs, the window at the end of the corridor was open, and raindrops drifted in, wetting the dried lavender flowers on the windowsill. They were cut last year, and she and A Yu strung them together and hung them by the windows of each room, saying that "the wind would also carry a bit of the smell of home."
The woman's bedroom door was ajar, the light from a cell phone screen shining through. Zhong Hua was about to knock when she heard low voices and the sound of something being rummaged through inside. She hesitated, then turned to find Ayu standing at the top of the stairs, holding an umbrella.
“She’s on the phone,” Ayu said softly. “She’s speaking French and she’s mentioned the ‘Truth Foundation.’”
Zhong Hua's heart clenched. The "Truth Foundation" was established with the compensation money from the Gu family, specifically to help those harmed by commercial shady dealings. Not many people knew about it, and Lin Wanqing was the first to donate. That year, she was distributing supplies to refugees on the streets of Paris, and her phone's screensaver was a photo of the three of them at a cocktail party, their backs close together.
The rain continued until midnight, waking Zhong Hua from the sound of thunder. Beside her, Ayu slept soundly, but her brow was furrowed, as if she were having a restless dream. She got up to close the window and saw the light still on in the innermost room on the second floor. A shadow of someone holding a phone was projected onto the curtains, taking a picture of the sky—exactly the same pose Lin Wanqing had used to secretly photograph them at the party years ago.
The next morning, Zhong Hua was awakened by the wind chimes downstairs. She put on her clothes and went downstairs, where she saw a glass jar on the bar counter containing dried lavender flowers. Underneath the jar was a note with delicate handwriting and a small hook at the end, just like Lin Wanqing's handwriting.
"Three years ago in Paris, someone asked me to pass on a message—'When the lavender blooms, remember to make her some honey water.'"
Ayu returned from outside, her trousers muddy, holding a bunch of wild chrysanthemums in her hands, raindrops still clinging to their yellow petals. "I just saw that silver-gray sedan at the intersection," she said, placing the flowers in a glass vase. "The owner said to give us his regards for Lin Wanqing."
Zhong Hua picked up the glass jar, and the fragrance of dried flowers wafted out, mixed with the bittersweet scent of wild chrysanthemums, much like the jar of yak cheese the three of them shared in the snow-capped mountains that year. She suddenly noticed a small "L" engraved on the bottom of the jar, mostly covered by the dried flowers, almost invisible without careful observation.
“She photographed the stars last night.” Zhong Hua looked out the window at the clear sky, where the vineyards in the distance shone brightly after the rain. “The stars in Africa and those here should be able to form a line, right?”
Ayu hugged her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head. Their silver rings clinked together. "Wanqing once said," his voice was soft, like the wind blowing through a lavender field, "that a true farewell is not saying goodbye, but engraving the other person's name into the days to come."
Zhong Hua framed the group photo from Paris and placed it prominently on the bar counter. Sunlight streamed through the glass jar, casting a purple halo around the photo and enveloping the three figures. She suddenly remembered the scar on the woman's wrist, the scent of irises, and the tag with half an Eiffel Tower on the suitcase—it turned out that some reunions didn't need to be too close; like the wind passing through fields, like stars falling on the horizon, knowing that each other was there was enough.
Ayu brought over two glasses of honey water, the rims of which overlapped once again. Zhonghua took a sip; the sweetness was tinged with the bitterness of lavender, much like the years they had spent together. In the distant vineyard, a figure in a beige trench coat walked towards the crossroads. The wind lifted her scarf, revealing a light brown scar on her wrist, which shimmered in the sunlight like a star that had finally found its home.
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