Breakfast on the Seine
1. Creases at the boarding gate
As the airport announcement urged passengers bound for Paris to board for the third time, Ah Yu's thumb was still rubbing the note tucked inside her ticket. Lin Wanqing's handwriting had a slightly flamboyant curve, as if the tip of her pen was laughing as she wrote: "Go chase after the person who fills up your phone's photo album."
But his phone's photo album contains more than just Zhong Hua.
As the security conveyor belt clicked, a leather notebook slid out of the side pocket of his backpack. The plastic cover still smelled of disinfectant from the ICU ward. Turning to the third page, he found a photocopy of Zhong Hua's interview transcript, its edges creased and frayed—the text he had read aloud to her by her bedside for seven nights. When he read the phrase "the person I want to thank the most," her eyelashes trembled like butterflies after rain, and even the waveform on the monitor softened slightly.
But tucked inside the interview transcript was a photo from the cocktail party. Lin Wanqing, wearing a silver fishtail dress, stood in the center, with him and Zhong Hua on either side, the crystal chandelier shattering into stars on their shoulders. On the back of the photo were some small words, added by Lin Wanqing later: "At that time, I thought this would last forever."
"Sir?" The flight attendant's reminder pulled him back to reality. Ah Yu closed his notebook and stuffed it into his suit pocket, his fingertips touching a hard corner—a silver ring box he'd bought in Tibet, with Lin Wanqing's words "Be happy" engraved on the bottom. He suddenly remembered that day on the road to rehabilitation in the snow-capped mountains, when Zhong Hua tied the red string to the prayer wheel, and the wind carried her words over: "Wanqing said, if the red string breaks, it means fate has changed its form."
As the plane broke through the clouds, Ah Yu turned on her phone. Deep inside the album was a video: Lin Wanqing was distributing bread to refugees on the streets of Paris, her blue dress billowing in the wind. When she turned around and noticed he was filming her, she suddenly smiled and waved. A wilted daisy was tucked into her hair—the same variety as the one he had secretly tucked behind her ear at the party three years ago.
The moment the screen went dark, the dark circles under his eyes were revealed. From receiving the plane ticket to deciding to board, he spent a full forty hours. In those forty hours, he read Zhong Hua's unreleased interview transcript nineteen times, flipped through the files of Gu Yanting's arson case, and finally, at three in the morning in his office, he saw Lin Wanqing's charity live stream: she stood on the African savanna holding a water meter, saying she wanted to dig wells for refugees; the camera panned across her tent, on which was a printed photo of three people, the edges frayed by the wind.
"Dear friends who donated," she smiled at the camera, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes, "I have two very important people in my life. They taught me that kindness is not about self-pity, but about being willing to hand someone a rope even if you fall into the mud."
Ah Yu's finger hovered over the "Confirm Payment" button for three seconds before finally transferring enough money to dig ten wells. In the transfer remarks, he wrote: "Donating on behalf of Zhong Hua as well."
II. Temperature of Red Bean Porridge
The morning mist on the Seine hadn't yet dissipated, and the engines of the cruise ships were cutting through the fine waves. Ah Yu stood on the deck counting the arches, and under the seventh arch, Lin Wanqing's figure suddenly emerged from the mist.
She wore a camel-colored trench coat, her hair casually pulled back, revealing a light pink scar on the side of her neck—a cut from broken glass when she tried to seize evidence of Gu Yanting's arson. "You arrived forty minutes later than I expected," she said, shaking the thermos in her hand, "The red bean porridge will burn if it gets any hotter."
The dining table was set up by the window in the cabin. Steam rose from the red bean porridge in the white porcelain bowl, topped with a soft-boiled egg, the yolk edge tinged with a gentle orange. Ah Yu's spoon had just touched the rim of the bowl when he paused—at that much-discussed party three years ago, he had merely remarked to Lin Wanqing, who was passing by, as he was getting his second bowl of red bean porridge from the buffet, "The alkaline red beans from my hometown are still the most fragrant."
Back then, she was still Gu Yanting's "Secretary Lin," dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit. Upon hearing this, she merely smiled politely, and no one took it seriously. It wasn't until later, outside the ICU, that a nurse handed him a coat left behind by Lin Wanqing. In the pocket was a vacuum-packed bag of alkaline red beans, the production date on the label being the day after the party.
"Want to try some?" Lin Wanqing pushed over a small dish of osmanthus sugar. "I had someone send you some alkaline water from your hometown, and I boiled it for four hours."
Ah Yu scooped up a spoonful of porridge, the warm sweetness sliding down her throat, and suddenly remembered the night of the mudslide. Zhong Hua was unconscious in her arms, a ginkgo leaf specimen stuck in her hair—it was something he had casually tucked into her notebook at the end of one of his interviews. When he crawled out of the ravine, his back was covered in blood from cuts from the rubble, yet he clutched that withered leaf tightly, as if protecting a fragile promise.
"How is Zhong Hua?" Lin Wanqing's voice was very soft, causing the milk foam in the coffee cup to tremble.
"We're resting in Tibet," Ah Yu put down her spoon. "There's a red string tied to the prayer wheel, saying it'll protect us all."
“She’s always like this,” Lin Wanqing laughed, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes reflecting the morning light. “Back in the Gu family, she knew that exposing the inside story would lead to retaliation, but she still handed me the recording pen and said, ‘Sister Wanqing, you have more important things to do.’”
Ah Yu gazed at the Eiffel Tower flashing past the window and suddenly remembered the day of the truth-revealing press conference. Zhong Hua stood on the stage, injured, her face pale in the live broadcast screen. He held up the recording pen she had left behind, the pen still stained with her blood. Lin Wanqing, who was supposed to attend as a key witness, boarded a plane to Paris that morning, leaving only a text message: "I'll be waiting for you in Paris, until the storm passes."
But after the storm subsided, a different choice awaited them.
III. The temperature inside the trench coat
As the cruise ship docked, the morning mist had mostly dissipated. Lin Wanqing led Ah Yu toward Montmartre, and as they passed a bakery, she suddenly stopped: "Wait for me for five minutes."
The glass door jingled. Ah Yu stood on the street, watching the steaming croissants in the shop window, and for a moment, she was transported back to New Year's Eve three years ago. Zhong Hua had just finished surgery and was cooking instant noodles in his hospital room when Lin Wanqing brought in a thermos containing chicken soup that had been simmering all night. The three of them shared the noodles and soup. Zhong Hua jokingly called it "class integration," but Lin Wanqing, gazing at the fireworks outside the window, softly said, "I really hope it can always be like this."
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