Zhong Hua looked at A Yu. He was giving her a "good luck" gesture, and the silver ring on his ring finger gleamed in the sunlight. It was the Tibetan silver ring he had taken out when he proposed in the snow-capped mountains, with the words "May you be happy" written by Lin Wanqing on the bottom of the box.
“My weakness is the fear of loss,” Zhong Hua answered honestly. “I’m afraid of losing the truth, afraid of losing the people I love, and afraid of losing those moments that taught me courage. But I later discovered that these weaknesses are actually my armor.”
Just like the ancestral jade pendant sent by Zhong Hua's mother, now lying in her jewelry box, placed together with the dried lavender flowers sent by Lin Wanqing. Just like the back of the bronze doorplate of the guesthouse, engraved with the three initials A, Z, and L, which makes a sound like a wind chime when the wind blows.
Halfway through the press conference, someone pushed open the door. Sunlight streamed in through the crack, outlining a figure in a beige trench coat. Zhong Hua's heart skipped a beat, until the person took off their sunglasses—it was the lady who had stayed at the guesthouse a few days ago, the scar on her wrist faintly visible in the light.
The woman smiled at her and sat down in the last row. Ayu handed her a cup of hot cocoa, and the two whispered something to each other. The woman's gaze fell on the book in Zhong Hua's hand, noticing that the mole at the corner of his eye resembled Lin Wanqing's.
“The last chapter is about winter in Provence.” Zhong Hua turned to the last page, his voice tinged with laughter. “When the first snow fell last year, Ayu was fixing the chimney in front of the fireplace. I handed him a glass of mulled wine and found our lip print on the rim. He suddenly said, ‘Look, some marks can’t be wiped away.’”
Like the scar on Lin Wanqing's wrist, like the mark on Zhong Hua's knee, like the burn scar on A Yu's hand—those were from when he was burned by rolling rocks while protecting her from the mudslide. These marks are etched on the skin, and also etched into life, becoming more profound imprints than names.
During the book signing, a woman in a beige trench coat approached. She handed the book to Zhong Hua; A Yu's signature was already on the title page. "Could you write a message for me?" she asked softly, "To 'the person who taught me courage'."
Zhong Hua, pen in hand, suddenly noticed half a postcard peeking out of the woman's handbag—it was of the African savanna's starry sky, exactly the same as the one Lin Wanqing had sent her. She lowered her head and wrote: "The stars will remember every brave person."
As the woman took the book, the scar on her wrist brushed against Zhong Hua's hand. Zhong Hua suddenly remembered what Lin Wanqing had said in the video: "When I come back, we'll go to Provence to plant lavender. We'll plant three colors, representing the three of us."
It turns out that some promises don't necessarily have to be fulfilled in person. Just like now, the wind blows in through the bookstore window, carrying the scent of lavender, as if someone in the distance is saying, "I heard your story."
After the press conference, Ayu held Zhonghua's hand as they walked through the streets of Paris. The setting sun cast long shadows of the two of them, overlapping each other just like in the book.
“That woman just now,” Zhong Hua recalled something, “the plane ticket sticking out of her trench coat pocket was for Africa.”
Ayu stopped and took out a note from her pocket: "She left this for you before she left."
The handwriting on the note was very similar to Lin Wanqing's, but with a different kind of carefree spirit: "Sister Lin said that your book is missing a sentence - 'Love is something that makes you dare to look back and also dare to move forward.'"
Zhong Hua's tears suddenly fell. She turned and hugged A Yu, burying her face in his trench coat. The Eiffel Tower in the distance lit up, its golden light falling on them, like the clouds in the sky when he proposed to her three years ago on the snowy mountain.
“Let’s go home.” Ayu gently patted her back. “It’s time to collect the dried lavender flowers from the guesthouse.”
Zhong Hua nodded. She knew that on the bar counter at home, Lin Wanqing's photo faced the door, next to the book "Red Beauty." And on the top shelf of the bookshelf, there were two letters that would never be sent—one to Lin Wanqing, who was stargazing in Africa, and the other to herself, who had finally dared to open her eyes in the ICU.
Passing by a flower shop on the street corner, Ayu went in and bought a bunch of lavender. The shop owner smiled and said, "Many people are buying this today, saying they want to give it to 'the person who taught them to be brave'."
Zhong Hua took the flowers, her fingertips touching the veins of the petals. She suddenly understood that the so-called beauty was never a person's name, but those moments hidden in time—the overlapping fingertips on the prison window, the matching red rope on the prayer wheel, the words on the title page blurred by tears.
Just like now, the scent of lavender in the wind and the words in the book both seem to say:
"We're all here."
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