He didn't move.
Xie Zihan simply stared at the hand she extended toward him.
Pale fingers. Slight redness. A faint blister already forming.
Help me.
The words echoed strangely in his chest.
This feeling—This closeness—This instinct to respond—
It wasn't new.
It felt… remembered.
Meilin was smiling at him, eyes bright, unguarded, almost too hopeful. The kind of smile that didn't demand anything, yet made retreat impossible.
"…Come," he said finally, voice low, reluctant, but certain.
Nearby, beside the park, a large concrete vent lay hidden behind overgrown shrubs. Quiet. Flat. Secluded. He guided her there, wordless, hands steady, chest tight with something he couldn't name.
"Sit."
She obeyed, and the evening breeze stirred the leaves. The distant city noise faded into a soft hum.
Zihan crouched in front of her, uncapping the small tube of ointment. His fingers hovered, trembling slightly—not from fear, but recognition.
Why does this feel like déjà vu?
He pressed the ointment gently onto her wrist.
The moment his thumb brushed her skin, memories rushed back.
—
Cold concrete.Iron bars.The acrid stench of blood and disinfectant.
Her hands—raw, torn, trembling.
"I won't die here," she had whispered hoarsely.
A shadow crouched beside her, eyes dark, jaw bruised. His hands had shaken, but careful, as he applied stolen ointment.
"Don't talk," he had said, low. "Save your strength."
"It hurts," she had bitten back a sob.
"I know," he had replied, eyes fixed elsewhere, steady, unyielding.
"I'll get you out," he had promised. "Even if I die doing it."
"Why?" she had asked, terrified, desperate.
He hadn't looked at her.
—
"Miss Li."
His voice pulled her back to the present.
She blinked. Tears slid silently down her lashes, betraying the calm she tried to wear.
Zihan frowned. "Does it hurt that much?"
He hesitated, then added, "Should I take you to the hospital?"
She shook her head quickly. "No—no. It's fine. Really. It'll heal in a few days."
He studied her, unconvinced, silent for a long moment. Then he sat beside her.
Neither spoke.
The silence was not empty. It was heavy, laden with memory, with longing, with questions neither dared voice.
Meilin clenched her fingers. If I stay quiet… I'll lose him again.
She inhaled softly, taking a deep breath.
"Zihan," she said.
He turned toward her, cautious.
"…Do you want to take a walk in the park?"
A pause.
"…Okay," he murmured.
They remained seated for a heartbeat longer. Then she smiled suddenly. "Wait here."
Before he could respond, she hurried off.
Minutes later, she returned, holding two ice cream cones—vanilla-matcha, creamy and fragrant, trending in the city.
She handed him one.
He didn't take it.
She frowned, then, without hesitation, pressed it into his hand. "Eat."
"…You're persistent," he muttered.
"That's my good trait," she replied, a sparkle in her eyes.
She grabbed his wrist lightly and tugged him forward. "Come on."
They walked.
Inside him, chaos stirred.
Why am I following her?Why does this feel natural?Why does my chest feel… warm?
As she walked, she chattered—her first peaceful walk with him—and her joy filled the space around them. Each laugh, each tilt of her head, made him notice the delicate curve of her cheek, the warmth in her eyes. And though he said nothing, he observed her, drinking in every expression, storing it like a memory he couldn't explain.
A small puppy trotted toward them, tail wagging like a metronome of happiness.
Meilin gasped. "Oh—look at it!"
She scooped it up, cradling it instinctively.
"Zihan, isn't it cute?"
She crouched, scanning the park. "Hey—does anyone own this puppy?"
No answer.
Her brows furrowed briefly, concern flashing, then smoothed. "I think someone abandoned it. I'll take care of it."
She held the puppy carefully, smiling like a child discovering treasure.
Zihan forgot to breathe.
That smile—so bright, so real—stabbed at something buried in him.
"…You didn't even eat your ice cream," she said suddenly, nudging his arm. "Eat."
He took a bite. Sweet. Cold. Perfect.
Meilin crouched on the park path, the tiny puppy wriggling in her arms. She looked at Zihan, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"What should we call you?" she asked softly, tilting the puppy's head. "Any ideas, Zihan?"
He stayed quiet, his dark eyes studying the little furball. No words came. He seemed… unsure, distant, yet his gaze lingered on her.
Meilin sighed, a playful grin spreading across her face. "Fine, then I'll do it myself." She thought for a moment, her lips curling. "How about… Zimei?"
The puppy yipped, as if agreeing, and Meilin laughed, the sound like chimes in the evening air.
"Zimei," she repeated, holding the little creature closer. "Yes, that suits you perfectly."
Inside, Zihan's mind stirred. Zimei… The name sounded odd, but strangely… familiar. He didn't think much, yet something in the combination—the softness of "Mei," the strength of "Zi"—lingered in his chest. A warmth he couldn't name.
Meanwhile, Meilin's laughter rang freely. Zimei… she thought, smiling at the pup. Meilin… Zihan… Zimei. Somehow, the three names felt connected, tangled together in a tiny, perfect moment.
Zihan simply watched her, the faintest corner of his mouth tugging upward, as if even he couldn't resist the happiness in her eyes.
The evening bells chimed faintly from a nearby building—seven o'clock.
"Oh," she said, straightening. "It's late."
She stepped back, puppy in her arms.
"Bye, Zihan."
He frowned slightly.
She smiled gently. "If destiny lets us meet once… it'll let us meet again."
And just like that, she walked away.
He remained, frozen in place, confused, heart oddly heavy.
Destiny?Meet again?
The words lingered.
His phone buzzed. Evening shift. Restaurant bar.
He turned toward work, but his steps felt heavier than before.
For the first time, Xie Zihan wondered if some bonds—some feelings—were older than memory itself.