Zhang Lan came by again. This time, she wasn't carrying soup, but a thick, yellowed kraft paper envelope.
She handed it to Lin Zhou.
"What's this?" Lin Zhou asked, puzzled.
"Xiao Che asked me to give this to you," Zhang Lan said. "He said these things belong to you."
Lin Zhou opened the envelope. When she saw what was inside, she froze.
It was a thick stack of postcards and letters. The addressee on every envelope was her own name and address, stamped with "Address Unknown, Return to Sender."
It was every piece of longing she had sent to that "non-existent foreign address" for the past three years.
He hadn't missed a single one. Through a friend at the post office, he had intercepted every letter she sent, keeping them unopened.
With trembling hands, Lin Zhou opened the most recent one, the postcard with Starry Night on it.
She looked at her familiar handwriting, at the phrase "I look forward to your reply," and the tears she could no longer hold back streamed down her face.
She finally understood. In the three years she had been waiting for him, he had been waiting for her in his own way. He had carefully collected all her messages of longing, like a treasured jewel, the only light in his dark life.
Clutching the heavy stack of letters, she ran up to the sixth floor.
She didn't knock. She used the spare key he had given her a few days ago, saying he was afraid of another accident.
Shen Che was sitting by the window, lost in thought. He was startled to see her burst in, her face streaked with tears.
Lin Zhou didn't say a word. She just walked over and hugged him tightly from behind.
Her face pressed against his thin but warm back, she sobbed, "Shen Che, you... you fool."
Shen Che's body stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. He reached back and held her hand tightly, as if with all the strength he had left.
"I'm sorry, Zhou Zhou," his voice was thick with emotion. "For making you wait so long."
In that moment, all the resentment, all the distance, seemed to melt away in this embrace that was three years overdue.