Come, Let Me Take You Home 31

No. 31 The Twilight of the Setting Sun Reflected in Water

When I arrived at the residential complex gate, Huang Yingdie was sitting quietly on a bench, eating breakfast.

I was curious what her father had said to her to make her so obediently wait for me every morning.

She had a terrible temper, quick to resort to violence, and a sharp tongue. She didn’t seem like the type to sit still, unless she was being threatened. I couldn’t imagine what kind of leverage her father had over her.

“You really pushed yourself too hard last night.”

I sighed as I parked my bike beside her. “Martial arts is a journey of self-cultivation. Being too reckless will only lead to injury.”

Last night’s training session was still fresh in my mind.

After completing the twenty laps and stretching, when we moved on to technique practice, Huang Yingdie’s intensity had shocked everyone.

She attacked the kicking pad I was holding with a ferocity that bordered on self-destructive, her shouts echoing through the gym, her movements precise and powerful.

Side kicks, roundhouse kicks, front kicks, spinning kicks, double flying kicks, even consecutive aerial double kicks—she executed them all flawlessly.

But I could feel the force behind each kick.

Unless you were venting your anger on a punching bag, you wouldn’t put your full strength into every strike during pad training or sparring. It was a burden on both the trainee and the instructor, and it hindered recovery.

She was treating me like her sworn enemy. After half an hour, she was gasping for air, and my arm was numb.

I knew she was just frustrated.

Children from single-parent families often had fragile egos.

“I told you, it’s none of your business.”

She got on the back of my bike, her voice cold. “Just do your job. What I do with my life is my choice.”

It was as if we were sworn enemies, when in reality, there was no real animosity between us.

Well, some people had to learn the hard way.

Just as I was about to get on my bike, my phone rang.

There were a few dresses in Yi Yao’s closet, but neither I nor the original Yi Yao liked wearing them. I usually wore jeans or my school uniform pants. Dresses were reserved for extremely hot days.

“Hello?”

I pulled out my phone and saw the caller ID. A wave of unease washed over me.

“Yi Yao… come quickly… Zhuoyue, he…”

Lan Zhuoyue’s mother was sobbing uncontrollably. “He’s dying… come quickly, Yi Yao… he wants to see you…”

Her voice was filled with grief and despair.

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

I hung up, tossed my bike keys to Huang Yingdie, and said, “Go to school by yourself today. I have an emergency.”

Without waiting for her response, I ran to the street and hailed a taxi.

“Driver, please hurry. My friend is dying.”

Perhaps he saw the urgency on my face. He nodded, stepped on the gas, and weaved through traffic.

We arrived at the hospital in less than five minutes. I paid the fare, jumped out of the car, and sprinted towards the entrance. Thanks to my training, I quickly reached the fifth floor and, after asking at the nurse’s station, found Lan Zhuoyue’s room.

It was a private room, now crowded with doctors, nurses, and his family.

“She’s here, she’s here!”

Lan Zhuoyue’s mother cried out, and the crowd parted, making way for me.

White sheets, oxygen tanks, IV bags, and a pale boy lying in the bed.

A cold room, cold people.

“Zhuoyue.”

I walked over to his bedside.

“You were supposed to be getting better!”

I tried to mask my grief with anger, but tears streamed down my face.

“Heh…”

Even now, he was still smiling faintly. “Yi Yao, you tricked me so many times in class. Can’t I trick you back just once?”

The others quietly filed out of the room, closing the door behind them.

I could hear his mother’s heartbroken sobs from outside.

“Fine, fine, whatever you say. Damn it, you always do this. Keeping everything to yourself, calling me your brother.”

“Honestly, you’re the only brother I have in this world.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Yi Yao… I’ve wanted to ask you this for a long time… cough… can… can you be my girlfriend?”

He added quickly, before I could answer, “I want to hear the truth.”

I looked into his eyes.

They were clear, pure, filled with innocence, hope, and a hint of loneliness.

I shook my head, fighting back tears. “No.”

He sighed, a look of relief washing over his face.

“Yi Yao… you’re still the same. You haven’t changed at all.”

A trickle of blood escaped his lips.

The machines beside his bed started beeping frantically.

“You’re still wearing the cap I gave you… cough… that means you really liked it… thank you…”

The door burst open, and doctors rushed in.

“I have no regrets in this life, really… Yi Yao… I hope you find your own happiness…”

“Xiao Liu! Quick!”

“His blood pressure and heart rate are plummeting! We can’t stop the bleeding!”

“Bring the crash cart!”

In the midst of the chaos, I saw his face, peaceful and serene, his eyes closed.

I don’t remember how I left the room.

I had witnessed countless partings, countless tears and bloodshed.

I thought I had grown accustomed to this world, that I was immune to grief.

But I was wrong.

“We did everything we could.”

I sat on a bench in the hallway, my heart clenching as the doctor approached me, his voice somber.

“Thank you for your efforts, Dr. Wang.”

Lan Zhuoyue’s father said, his eyes red-rimmed, taking the medical report from the doctor.

“Go back to school, child. Don’t miss your… classes…”

His mother, who had intended to comfort me, broke down in tears.

“Okay…”

I knew I couldn’t do anything more. I bowed to her, apologized, and left the hospital.

At 10:00 AM on February 25, 2016, Lan Zhuoyue, a student in Class 11, Grade 9 at No. 3 Middle School, passed away due to complications from thalassemia.

I arrived back at school during the fourth period.

As expected, the homeroom teacher summoned me to her office.

Yi Yao already had a reputation for being troublesome, and I was undeniably late. The teacher’s scolding was harsh, but I didn’t argue. I just stood there silently, letting her vent her frustration.

After all, I could still return to this school. Some people couldn’t.

“Go back to your class. Write a 5,000-word essay reflecting on your actions. Otherwise, I’ll call your parents tomorrow.”

She finally dismissed me, exhausted from her tirade.

“Okay.”

5,000 words. That was the equivalent of six essays.

But I wasn’t worried about the content. If anything, I was willing to write tens of thousands of words to commemorate this event, an event that would forever be etched in my memory.

When I returned to the classroom, the fourth period had just ended. Tan Lijiang and Liang Tong were gathered around my desk, seemingly waiting for me.

“Yi Yao, where did you go this morning? Why were you gone for so long?”

After the basketball game, the tension between Tan Lijiang and me had eased. Like most boys, he didn’t hold grudges over trivial matters. In that regard, he was far more mature than a certain princess.

“I had something to do.”

I mumbled, sitting down and putting my bag on the desk.

Lan Zhuoyue’s desk remained untouched, just as he had left it: textbooks piled high, drawers filled with comics and magazines, the surface cluttered with papers and assignments.

“Where’s Lan Zhuoyue? When is he coming back? It’s been half a month.”

Tan Lijiang sat down on Lan Zhuoyue’s chair, grinning. “I’m ready to apologize. I’ve been waiting for so long.”

His words, though spoken lightly, were like a sharp knife to my heart.

“I don’t know.”

I lowered my head and took off my cap, placing it on the desk.

The red hearts on the cap shimmered in the sunlight.

“Heh, who cares about a guy like Lan Zhuoyue? He could die on the streets, and no one would notice…”

Before Liang Tong could finish his sentence, I jumped up, grabbed his collar, and slammed him against the wall.

“Thud!”

The entire class turned to stare at us.

“You…”

He raised his hands defensively, his eyes wide with fear. “I was just kidding! Why are you so worked up? What happened to Lan Zhuoyue?”

“He…”

I fought back tears. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

Tan Lijiang frowned. “Gone where?”

“He’s not coming back.” I released Liang Tong. “Internal bleeding. He passed away just now.”

Even an idiot could understand what I meant. Tan Lijiang’s voice trembled. “Yi Yao… don’t joke about this. It’s not funny.”

I chuckled bitterly. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Some things, once missed, were lost forever.

“Tan Lijiang, he might never hear your apology.”