The rain had gone stopped by hours ago, but the tragedy it left is still alive and raw, George's car rolled to a halt before Shu Yao's house.
The world outside was slick with silence—wet streets gleaming beneath the pale lamplight, wind carrying the faint scent of rain and earth.
George glanced at the boy beside him.
Shu Yao sat motionless, his eyes hollow, his damp hair clinging to his temple.
Every breath he took seemed borrowed, every blink a fight.
"You should rest," George said softly, his voice careful, almost reverent.
Shu Yao only nodded. His lips were pale, his shoulders drawn in tight. He looked like someone who had forgotten how to exist.
George hesitated. He wanted to say
Don't worry about anything. I'll take care of it. Just breathe.
But the words wouldn't leave his throat. They felt too small for the ruin before him.
Shu Yao opened the door and stepped out. The chill wrapped around him like a shroud.
George reached out instinctively, his hand hovering near Shu Yao's back. But he stopped himself. The distance between grief and comfort was an ocean, and he couldn't cross it.
Shu Yao didn't look back. He walked toward the front door with quiet steps, his body trembling faintly with exhaustion.
George watched him disappear inside.
He stood there for a long moment, head bowed, his own throat tightening.
The boy who was already carrying so much before, has gone completely numb, leaving only the ghost of rainlight behind.
---
Inside, the air was still. Too still.
Shu Yao pushed the door open and stepped in. The echo of his footsteps filled the corridor. The walls smelled faintly of lavender and candle smoke—scents that belonged to her.
Every corner whispered Qing Yue's name.
He swallowed hard, his chest tight.
His tears fell before he even realized they were there.
Something moved ahead.
A soft sound—tiny paws against the floorboards.
Shu Yao blinked and lifted his head.
"...Juju?"
The little cat emerged from Qing Yue's room, tail curled low, eyes round with quiet confusion.
For a heartbeat, Shu Yao forgot how to breathe. That door—her door—would never open again. Yet here was Juju, slipping out like a ghost of her warmth.
The cat paused, looking up at him. Then it sat, perfectly still.
Shu Yao broke.
The tears came all over again.
He crouched, his hands shaking, and reached for the small creature. Juju stepped closer and lifted a paw to his knee, as if asking where is she?
Shu Yao gathered the cat against his chest. His voice cracked, spilling out between hiccups.
"She… she loved you too, Juju."
The cat blinked slowly, then lifted its tiny paw to his cheek, touching the tear-streaked skin with impossible gentleness.
That simple gesture shattered him completely.
Shu Yao pressed his face against Juju's fur and whispered,
"She's gone… and it was all because of me. I shouldn't have—" His breath broke.
"—I shouldn't have been a coward.
I should've saved her. If someone had to die… it should've been me."
His sobs echoed down the empty corridor, soft and ruinous.
The world felt stripped of color. His home, once alive with laughter, now stood as an empty shell of everything he'd loved.
---
He carried Juju upstairs, step by slow step.
Each movement a punishment.
His ribs throbbed where Lu Zeyan had struck him, but that pain was nothing compared to the one pulsing in his chest.
He thought of Bai Qi—his anchor, his light—and the way he had turned away from him, eyes full of blame and grief.
A shiver ran through Shu Yao.
"Bai Qi… broke our friendship," he murmured, half-delirious with exhaustion. "He won't forgive me. after what happened…"
He reached his room. The door creaked open with a sound that felt like memory itself.
"I was always a coward," he whispered as he stepped inside. "Always hiding. And because of that, she's gone."
His voice wavered into a hoarse sound—thin, brittle, and short-lived.
Juju meowed softly in reply, confused by the strange ache in his tone.
Shu Yao set the cat down gently, then collapsed onto the bed without changing, his clothes still damp, his hair clinging to his forehead.
The room smelled faintly of her perfume. When she last came in here.That was what undid him.
"Will… will Bai Qi ever forgive me?" he whispered.
Juju tilted its head, blinking innocently.
Shu Yao smiled weakly, eyes red and swollen. "You don't understand, do you, little one?"
He reached out and stroked the cat's head. His tears fell again, tracing fresh paths down his face.
"Bai Qi will never forgive me," he murmured to juju. "But… I'll still love him. Like it was yesterday."
His throat tightened. "I'm sorry, Mother "I'm sorry Qing yue, I'm sorry… Bai Qi."
The words hung in the air, raw and trembling.
He turned onto his side, eyes heavy with exhaustion and sorrow.
The cold crept through the room, brushing against his damp skin.
Juju curled up beside him, tiny and warm, purring softly as if to shield him from the dark.
Outside, the moon watched from its lonely height—
silver light spilling across the bed, touching the broken boy and the small creature beside him.
A boy whose heart had finally gone quiet.
And a house that still remembered her.
The night folded into dawn.
The moon sank quietly behind the clouds, and the first light bled across the horizon.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, the world turned pale again.
The wind carried the scent of wet soil.
And when Shu Yao opened his eyes—
the day of Qing Yue's funeral had arrived.
The sky was gray like a hollow morning.
colorless gray that seemed to press against the earth and swallow every sound.
The funeral began under that silence.
Rows of black umbrellas dotted the cemetery, trembling faintly beneath the drizzle that still lingered from dawn. The scent of damp soil and incense curled through the air, heavy and unrelenting.
Qing Yue's coffin had already been lowered. The ground was still raw and uneven, as if the earth itself couldn't bear to accept her.
"Han Ruyan" knelt beside it, clutching the damp edge of the grave, her cries echoing in the mist.
"My girl… my little girl…"
Her voice broke into fragments, each word scraping against the wind.
"Bai Mingzhu" stood behind her, shoulders shaking. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, unable to speak.
Beside them, Bai Qi stood motionless. His face was unreadable, pale as porcelain—but his eyes, bloodshot and glassy, betrayed the sleepless night that had carved through him. His lips quivered, though no sound escaped them.
Bai Mingzhu, Bai Qi's mother, had an arm around Qing Yue's mother, whispering soft words that were lost to the rain. Her composed voice was the only thing keeping the older woman from collapsing entirely.
George was there too, standing quietly behind the mourners. He hadn't known what to say since they arrived. Some griefs didn't want words; they only needed silence.
And behind him—
stood Shu Yao.
He was apart from everyone else, as though his presence might disturb their mourning.
In his trembling hands, he held a bundle of white lilies.
His knuckles were white, his nails pressing deep into his palms. The flowers shook slightly, not from the wind, but from the unsteady rhythm of his hands.
George looked at him from the corner of his eye.
"Go on," he murmured gently. "It's all right. Go place them, Shu Yao."
But Shu Yao didn't move. His feet were rooted to the ground.
His gaze had found Bai Qi—and that was enough to freeze him completely.
Bai Qi's head was bowed. His hand, the one that still wore the engagement ring, rested limp at his side. The thin band of silver caught the light weakly—it was two band's now, glinting side by side. One for him, one for her.
Shu Yao's breath hitched.
His chest tightened until it hurt to stand.
He wanted to go to Bai Qi.
He wanted to say something—anything that would take the edge off the sorrow in those eyes. But his legs felt like they were made of stone.
George whispered again, "It's okay. Shu Yao Just go."
Shu Yao exhaled slowly, the sound trembling in his throat. Then, step by step, he moved forward.
The drizzle wet his hair, his lashes, his lips. He knelt before the grave, his knees sinking into the damp earth, and placed the lilies over the mound of fresh soil.
For a long moment, he didn't rise.
The incense smoke swirled upward, pale and ghostlike. He could smell the faint sweetness of the flowers, the metallic tang of rain, the sharp sting of regret.
When he finally stood, his eyes found Bai Qi again.
Bai Qi didn't look at him. Didn't even turn his head.
That quiet rejection hit harder than any word could have.
Shu Yao's throat burned. He lowered his gaze and walked past them—past the unseen casket, past the mourners, past the ring that still gleamed with what once was a promise.
George followed, silent and tense.
Outside the cemetery gates, Shu Yao stopped. The world was still dim and gray, the air thick with the smell of wet grass and earth.
George caught up, his voice firm but kind.
"Shu Yao… there's no need to go to work today. You should rest."
Shu Yao shook his head. His voice was faint, almost brittle.
"I can't stay home."
"Shu Yao, you're exhausted. You—"
"I can't." His voice cracked. He looked down, clutching his arms. "Everywhere I look, I see her. Every corridor, every chair. I can't stay there."
George's expression softened. "You don't look fine. At least—"
"I can't stay at home," Shu Yao cut him off again, more sharply this time. His breath hitched, trembling. "It's my fault. Because of me, she's gone."
George's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? Shu Yao, no. It wasn't your fault. It was fate itself. Please Stop blaming yourself."
Shu Yao smiled—a small, broken, bitter curve of the lips that wasn't really a smile at all.
"Why can't you understand, Mr, George?" he whispered. "It was my fault."
George stared at him, disbelief washing through his eyes.
"Shu Yao—"
"Bai Qi's right," Shu Yao murmured, his voice fading. "I shouldn't have been a coward."
His gaze dropped, empty and heavy with guilt.
A cab pulled up beside them, its tires splashing through a puddle. The sound broke the silence between them.
Shu Yao took a small step forward.
"Let me drop you off," George said quickly, panic flaring in his voice. "Shu Yao,—"
But Shu Yao shook his head, eyes lowered.
"I'm sorry, Mr. George. I've caused you enough trouble. I should learn to do things on my own."
"Shu Yao, what are you talking about—"
But the cab door closed before he could finish.
The car pulled away, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt, leaving George standing there, helpless and furious.
He ran a hand through his rain-damp hair, jaw tightening. "Damn it…"
He turned sharply and climbed into his own car.
The engine roared to life.
He couldn't let Shu Yao be alone.
Not when grief was still fresh enough to swallow him whole.
The cab rolled through the rain-washed streets, its tires whispering against the slick asphalt.
City lights blurred across the windows—neon smears of red, blue, and gold, reflected in Shu Yao's hollow eyes.
He sat motionless, hands clasped in his lap. His breath fogged faintly against the glass.
Outside, a billboard loomed above the traffic—Bai Qi, smiling, radiant, the perfect image of promise and success.
Beside him, the girl who once carried sunlight in her laughter—Qing Yue.
Her hand rested delicately over Bai Qi's chest. The silver band on her finger caught the light, a cruel imitation of eternity.
Shu Yao's gaze lingered on it for a moment too long. Then he turned away sharply, jaw trembling.
The brightness outside burned his eyes.
Everything hurt.
The memories. The silence.
And most of all—Bai Qi's rejection.
He could still see it—the vacant, glassy eyes, the lips that refused to form his name.
That moment when the distance between them became unbearable.
His fingers clenched.
How could he face him again?
How could he walk into the same office, breathe the same air, when Bai Qi would look at him as if he were a stranger?
The thought made his chest twist.
He bowed his head, shoulders trembling faintly.
Outside, the city carried on—oblivious, heartless, alive.
Billboards changed, faces faded, lights blinked in endless rhythm.
But inside the cab, there was only the sound of his breathing—unsteady, shallow, breaking quietly between gasps.
The car rolled on through the gray morning.
And Shu Yao, with eyes downcast and heart split open, whispered beneath his breath,
"they are everywhere…"