Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Later, my friends asked me: What exactly do you like about Song Cheng?

Is it just that face of his?

He treats you like this, so why are you so stubbornly obsessed?

Why? Perhaps it was that one time returning from school when I saw him feeding stray cats in the North Gate Wasteland Woods.

It was raining so hard. He held an umbrella in one hand while crouching on the ground with meticulous patience, coaxing a filthy kitten to come out.

Then, he gently tucked the dirty little thing under his coat and brought it back to the dorm.

His profile was so tender at that moment. I gazed at him in a daze; even though he was the one holding the umbrella, I felt as if that torrential rain was pouring down into my own heart.

I really wanted to tell him that I was a stray cat, too. I had been abandoned by my parents as a child and grew up wandering just like that.

He was so gentle even to a filthy stray kitten; if it were me, would he ever show me such a tender expression?

But thinking about it now… all of his tenderness was given to everyone except me.

Song Cheng returned a week later. I had been lying on the living room sofa for that entire week.

It was strange, though. He clearly had his keys, yet he persisted in knocking on the door over and over again.

It was as if he expected someone to jump out and open it for him.

Back when I was alive, every time he returned from a business trip, I would time it perfectly to stand by the door and wait for him.

Sometimes, if his flight was delayed, I would sit by the stairwell. When his figure finally appeared, I would fly toward him in a delightful surprise and throw my arms around his neck.

Because every single day we were apart, I missed him terribly.

He would pull my hands off his neck and say coldly, “Stop messing around.”

I would always prepare a lavish dinner because I knew he didn’t eat well while socializing on business trips, and he had developed stomach problems when he was younger.

Because of that, I became best at cooking dishes that were easy on the stomach.

Probably because no one answered the door, Aunt Fang from next door heard the noise and opened her door. She said to Song Cheng, “Little Song, you’re back from your trip?”

“Don’t bother knocking. Yang Yang isn’t here. I haven’t seen her for almost a week.”

“Did you forget your keys? Yang Yang left a spare set with me, just in case you forgot yours while she was out. Do you want them now?”

After a moment, I heard Song Cheng’s voice. It sounded as if it were being squeezed from the depths of his throat, hoarse and low. He said, “No need.”

He used his own key to open the door.

Then, he stood frozen at the entryway.

He had left in a hurry the day of his trip. The balcony curtains were drawn, making the room look dim and gloomy. The spray roses on the coffee table had completely withered. The house was a mess-a half-finished teapot, moldy fruit, a half-eaten bag of chips, and tiny specks of dust floating in the air.

Oh, and my ashes. They were in the small box provided by the funeral home, sitting right next to the dead roses.

When I was alive, the house was never this messy, because this was the little home Song Cheng and I shared.

Neither of us had any family, so I cherished this little nest we built together. I always kept it comfortable, organized, and spotlessly clean.

Heaven knows how much Song Cheng and I both wanted a home.

He stood there for a long time before finally walking in. He pulled back the curtains. My clothes were still hanging on the balcony to dry. He froze for a moment. Just when I thought he would throw all my clothes into the trash, he took them down, folded them on the sofa, and began to mop and clean.

I never knew the house could be this quiet. It felt as if there were no sound other than the sound of breathing.

After finishing the chores, he sat on the sofa alone, looking exhausted.

I studied him closely.

He had lost a lot of weight during this trip. There were bloodshot streaks in his eyes, and his stubble looked like it hadn’t been shaved properly.

For a lawyer like him, who was so well-dressed and cared about his appearance, could it be that the case he worked on with Qin Xingyun didn’t go well?

As I was wondering, I saw him pull out a cigarette and start smoking.

He had actually quit smoking a long time ago. I didn’t know why he had started again.

He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, his eyes wide open-hollow, cold, and devoid of emotion. He smoked one cigarette after another.

Then, for some reason, he drifted off into a daze again. It wasn’t until the ash between his fingers fell onto his palm that he snapped back to his senses. After a long time, I saw his lips move slightly.

I leaned in closer and heard him whisper very, very softly: “Yang Jie.”

The way he said the name was so faint, it felt like an auditory hallucination.