Much later on, she also asked Li Wuhui why she had proposed marriage upon their first meeting.
Li Wuhui had a cold at the time.
In a daze, she answered very casually—because she had a great time with her that day.
Even though her tone was extremely perfunctory, and she might not have even known what she was saying due to her severe illness, Qiu Yiran never doubted that answer.
Just like on their wedding day.
At first, she had not suspected Li Wuhui of having ulterior motives.
Of course, at that time, Li Wuhui did not exist in Paris. And Qiu Yiran still did not know this woman’s name.
Their self-introductions happened very late.
It was only when they ran to the city hall to register their marriage and fill out the forms.
The pen provided by the staff had run out of ink.
So Qiu Yiran took out her own pen, which she always carried, and filled in the relevant details on the form very seriously.
Halfway through filling it out,
she realized that the woman had been propping up her face and staring at her the whole time, while the form in front of her remained blank.
“What’s wrong?” Qiu Yiran pondered for a moment.
She thought for a bit, calmly capped her pen, and set it down.
“No problem. As we agreed before coming here, you can back out anytime.”
“No.” The sunlight was awakening outside, snow was still falling, and people bustled in and out of the city hall. The woman picked up the pen she had set down. “I just didn’t expect there to still be people who carry pens with them these days.”
So that was the reason.
Qiu Yiran quietly breathed a sigh of relief. “I didn’t expect there to still be people who carry handkerchiefs with them these days, aside from me.”
The woman propped up her face as she looked at her, seemingly finding her retort amusing.
“It seems we don’t know each other very well yet?”
“Apparently.”
“Then why don’t you introduce yourself first?” The woman blinked slyly, being very rude about it.
But Qiu Yiran laughed—from starting their marriage with self-introductions, she had never done anything so special.
She cleared her throat and proactively extended one hand. “Hello, I’m Qiu Yiran.”
The woman turned her face away at her words, as if holding back laughter, but she couldn’t hold it in.
Her upturned eye corners curved into a smile that spread like springtime. Once she finished laughing, she turned back.
Her gaze held a smile as she stared at her.
She gently grasped the hand Qiu Yiran had extended, her palm and fingers both very soft. She deliberately mimicked her tone,
“Hello, I’m Li Chunfeng.”
Even before letting go, she scratched at the base of Qiu Yiran’s palm with her finger. It was like a tease, or perhaps casual.
But it was somewhat cool.
It made Qiu Yiran feel a bit regretful in that moment—perhaps if the marriage didn’t happen, she should have held on longer.
At least to warm the other woman’s hand a little after holding hers.
“No problem, you can still back out—”
She had not finished speaking.
When she saw the woman uncap the pen and, head lowered, write the first entry on the otherwise blank form—
Qiu Yiran, her spouse.
For Qiu Yiran, this was, of course, an extremely novel sensation.
The woman seemed to feel something similar. After pausing her pen, she stared at that field for a long time before lightly parting her red lips.
“The name Qiu Yiran sounds nice. Perfectly, I like women whose names sound like they’d go all-in for love.”
Qiu Yiran couldn’t help laughing.
She took the pen and carefully wrote another name on her own form.
After finishing, she smiled at the woman and said,
“The name Li Chunfeng sounds nice too. Perfectly, I like women whose names sound warm and reliable.”
The woman narrowed her fox-like eyes, still hazy with intoxication, and said,
“So it turns out we’re a perfect match from our names alone.”
The process for same-sex marriage registration was quick back then. Since it wasn’t recognized domestically, their paperwork was much simpler than for opposite-sex marriages, and the process was straightforward.
By the time it was done, it was already Christmas Eve. All of Paris glittered with color, and the Seine River swayed in the haze, reflecting onto their faces.
Qiu Yiran suddenly realized that from then on, Christmas would hold extra meaning—it was her marriage anniversary with this person.
In her memory, they spent that Christmas exceptionally warmly, barely feeling the bite of the wind, snow, or cold.
When she woke up again, Qiu Yiran was still lying on the floor.
The fireplace in the hotel room burned warmly, its crackling flames flickering on her face, very comfortable.
The madness of the past two days left her, after Christmas had fully passed, suddenly unsure of where she was.
In her confusion, she looked around—
On such a cold day, she saw a woman in a strapless long dress, barefoot on the raspberry-red carpet, her curly hair swaying as she leaned against the windowsill, blowing in the wind.
The green gauze curtains fluttered up along with the woman’s skirt, blurring her vision like they had fuzzy edges.
“Li…” Qiu Yiran still remembered this woman’s name, and that they had gotten married.
She felt she hadn’t made that decision impulsively in a drunken state. And she believed this woman felt the same.
The woman leaning against the windowsill didn’t turn back, as if she hadn’t heard her words. Instead, she softly hummed that tune of unknown melody again.
The slow, gentle rhythm made Qiu Yiran feel much better.
As her awareness slowly returned, she rubbed her temples, and after sitting up, she suddenly noticed a book on the bedside table—
Or rather, a photo album.
The cover was a black-and-white photograph.
She clearly remembered—
She had insisted on using just one person and one beam of light for that shoot, which took quite some time.
And in the debate over using that photo for the cover, she had argued fiercely with her editor and finally gotten approval.
Her Ideal Country—this was her first photography collection.
Looking at the English letters on the spine of the album and the signature in the bottom right of the cover, Qiu Yiran felt her head growing even dizzier—
She remembered she hadn’t mentioned this to the woman in the past two days, nor told her who she was…
So how had her photo album ended up here?
“Awake?”
The woman’s voice suddenly drifted over, toneless, like an inscrutable breeze.
“There’s a cup of honey water on the table prepared for you.”
“Okay…” Qiu Yiran found her throat parched.
She dazedly drank the honey water the woman had poured for her. After half a sip, she suddenly recalled the water the woman had fed her yesterday when her head was spinning—it had seemed much sweeter than this.
She hadn’t insisted on the other woman feeding it to her.
As a photographer who dealt with so many people, she could quickly sense changes in others’ states.
But…
Since she had prepared honey water, she was probably overthinking it.
With that thought, Qiu Yiran sipped the honey water and subconsciously looked up at the woman again—
The other woman was still lazily leaning against the windowsill.
Like a coldly alluring cat.
Her expression hadn’t changed, pleasantly and lightly fixed on her, her brows and eyes still smiling.
“Aren’t you cold?” Qiu Yiran asked.
She then searched the room for their coats scattered everywhere. Midway, she nearly tripped over some clothes.
The woman burst out laughing but didn’t answer her question.
She leaned back against the windowsill, arms crossed, lazily and casually staring at her with a smile.
Qiu Yiran pursed her lips.
For some reason, she suddenly felt something was off.
The wind blew over, carrying the scent from the woman’s body right to her nose—identical to her own.
She picked up a coat and walked over warmly, draping it over the woman.
Such a simple action amplified the unease in her heart—
Her own height was already tall enough to hold her own among white female models.
Yet this woman was several centimeters taller than her…
It couldn’t help but bring her profession to mind.
“You’re a model?” In her hesitation, Qiu Yiran finally voiced it.
She kept her tone feigned casual.
The woman’s tone was genuinely casual. “An unemployed model.”
Qiu Yiran was slightly stunned.
She admitted that in that moment, the words “unemployed model” did spark baseless guesses and associations.
But right after.
Her first reaction was to blame herself for overthinking. Just as she was about to speak comfort—
The woman turned her head.
Just like yesterday.
Her palm cupped Qiu Yiran’s cheek, and she suddenly planted a kiss at the corner of her lips.
Then, she slowly pulled away, letting them gaze at each other in the firelight.
In that instant, Qiu Yiran spotted some omen in her eyes. Though at the time, she didn’t realize what it was. Later, she recalled it countless times…
Only then did she realize it might have been the first hint of scheming—
“Big Photographer, you’re such a good person.”
The woman rubbed her earlobe with her fingertip. Her upturned fox-like eyes blinked, like coaxing, like flirting.
“You’ll surely do your best to help your unemployed wife, right?”
After that Christmas, Paris’s snow didn’t melt for a long time. And from that day on, Qiu Yiran learned a harsh lesson and thoroughly understood one truth—
Be wary of women with upturned eye corners. Because they were usually very good at deception.
–
“I don’t know.” Qiu Yiran said.
Today, November 21, 2024, Paris had its first snow of the year.
That woman with the fox-like eyes had come knocking again, asking if she knew it had snowed in Paris today.
“So Paris’s snow came this early this year.”
November 21.
Perhaps a bit early or late made no difference from the snow on that Christmas five years ago.
She just was no longer in Paris.
Qiu Yiran indifferently watched the busy people outside the car, clearly seeing the huge “Mang City” characters on the high-speed rail station, even the red paint missing half a stroke.
But at least Li Wuhui shouldn’t come here anymore.
“Li Wuhui.”
After a long silence, she realized her voice was hoarse. “You should get out.”
Li Wuhui gave no response.
“Li Wuhui?”
Qiu Yiran looked over and was shocked to realize Li Wuhui wasn’t ignoring her—she couldn’t respond—
The woman slumped in the passenger seat had a deathly pale face, breathing labored. Strands of hair peeked from under her cold-weather hat, soaked with sweat and curled tight against her face, as if she had passed out from pain due to some illness.
Her body reacted faster than her brain.
Qiu Yiran quickly unbuckled her seatbelt. The moment she stepped out, her legs went weak, nearly causing her to fall.
The cold wind slashed like knives across her face, surging into the aching residual limb.
Gritting through the pain, she limped to the other side, opened the door, and in her panic almost grabbed her but only dared to push Li Wuhui’s shoulder.
“Li Wuhui, what’s wrong?”
Li Wuhui gave no response, her lip color rapidly turning ashen.
In her anxiety, Qiu Yiran froze for two seconds.
Then she slammed the door shut, limped back to the driver’s seat, and sped toward the hospital.
The car raced through the snowy haze.
From the moment she got back in, Qiu Yiran felt short of breath. She bit her lips hard and glanced at the deathly pale Li Wuhui in the passenger seat.
She blamed herself for not noticing sooner, regretted wasting time getting out just now, questioned why she felt like she had been yanked from three years of stagnation—
Why had it taken until now to remember how agonizing Li Wuhui’s chronic condition could be when it flared up.
