The rain in July always fell without warning. Clutching his burning phone, Cheng Xubai stood outside the emergency room, the glass reflecting his paper-white face. The screen lit up with the latest message: "Shen Qinghuan is in critical condition. Come quickly." The scent of disinfectant mixed with the raw, heavy odor of the storm flooded his nose. Ten years of memories rushed over his defenses like a tidal wave, unearthing all the regrets he had deliberately locked away.
In the midsummer of ten years ago, Cheng Xubai was still a green, rookie intern lawyer. In the top-floor cafe of the law firm, he first laid eyes on Shen Qinghuan. She wore a light blue dress, cradling a sketchbook as she intently drew the phoenix trees outside the window, sunlight filtering through the glass to gild the tips of her hair. When she looked up to ask for directions, her eyes seemed to hold the entire galaxy, and Cheng Xubai heard himself say on impulse, "I'm heading that way."
Back then, Shen Qinghuan was a graduate student at the academy of fine arts, dreaming of holding a solo exhibition. After working overtime, Cheng Xubai would cross half the city just to deliver a piping-hot bowl of wontons to her; when her inspiration dried up, he would accompany her on aimless walks through the midnight streets; he would carefully tuck away the casual little illustrations she drew into his briefcase.
Chapter 183