Chapter 5: Mourning

It was past midnight by the time Jiang Zhizhou finished her nighttime routine and climbed into bed, but sleep eluded her.

In her previous life, she had graduated from a top drama academy, shot to fame at a young age, and worked exclusively with industry heavyweights. Yet tomorrow, she was set to film a low-budget web drama. The contrast was stark, to say the least.

After letting her thoughts wander aimlessly for a while, Jiang Zhizhou let out a self-mocking smile.

This second chance at life had gifted her several extra years of youth—an opportunity few could ever dream of. To complain now would make her seem ungrateful, like someone who had everything handed to them and still found fault.

An optimist at heart, she refused to wallow in self-pity. With another wry chuckle at herself, she shoved her rambling thoughts aside and reached for the phone on her nightstand out of habit, scrolling through social media.

She had taken over the original host’s Weibo and WeChat accounts. The original host’s Weibo was verified as “Star Source Entertainment artist Shen Xinghe,” with just over fifty thousand followers. Jiang Zhizhou wasn’t sure if the company had bought any of those.

She skimmed a few posts before tapping into the trending topics, where #JiangZhizhouCarAccidentDeath# caught her eye.

She clicked through to her own profile.

The most recent post showed her cradling the Silver Bear Award trophy, grinning boldly at the camera.

Over a million comments had piled up beneath it—

“Zhouzhou, quit sleeping in! Wake up and set the record straight—it’s gotta be fake!”

“Come out and debunk this! Please! I refuse to believe the media!”

“Hey, I’ve been your fan for years. Even when the whole internet turned against you that one time, I stuck around. You’re not seriously leaving us behind first, are you?”

…

Jiang Zhizhou scrolled for ages but never reached the bottom.

The comments with the most likes were from right after the media broke the news—fans in denial, desperately begging her to come forward and clarify what they assumed was a hoax. It wasn’t until her studio and agent released the official death notice that they began to accept it as real.

Even now, people were still dropping goodnight messages in the comments.

As Jiang Zhizhou read through her fans’ words, one after another, her nose began to tingle.

She sniffed hard, blinked fiercely to hold back the tears, closed Weibo, and opened WeChat. She logged into her old account on the sly.

Her contacts there were all close friends and family, plus a web of industry connections.

She opened up Moments.

Her agent of ten years, Su Guo, had posted her death obituary as her latest update.

Her personal assistant’s most recent post was an image of three candles.

In the group chats from her old productions, directors, producers, supervisors, and others were still chatting sporadically—sighing over her misfortune, expressing their regrets.

To witness her loved ones mourning her after her death… it was probably a one-of-a-kind experience.

Jiang Zhizhou gave a self-deprecating smile and kept scrolling until her thumb paused. Her gaze fixed on the name “Jiang Qingmeng.”

Jiang Qingmeng had sent three messages.

The first one read—

【Actually, I’ve liked you for many years. It started the first time we met in that hospital.

You had no idea, did you? I’ve kept these feelings buried for so long—long enough that I thought I’d never breathe a word of them.

I’ve watched every one of your movies, over and over, countless times.

When you were seventeen and starred in Jingzhe, I was only ten. I didn’t have the eye for film back then; I just kept replaying that scene of you dancing in the snow until I memorized your name: Jiang Zhizhou.

At nineteen, you played Lu Shuang, and I was twelve—the first time I met you in the real world. But you’d already forgotten all about me, hadn’t you? Clean slate.

It doesn’t matter. In this lifetime, I’ll always remember you…】

Jiang Qingmeng had written nearly a thousand words, chronicling her feelings from Jiang Zhizhou’s debut role as Jingzhe at seventeen all the way to her final one as Zhuang Xiaodie.

From age ten to twenty, she had loved her for a full decade.

Jiang Qingmeng had penned every word with utmost sincerity, and Jiang Zhizhou read every word with equal care.

Actors and their roles were intertwined, each elevating the other. She had poured her soul into those characters, and now someone was sharing that same passion. How could she not feel overjoyed? Moved beyond words?

【It took you leaving for me to finally say it out loud. You hated this kind of affection, so I never dared speak it. I never got too close, either. I knew you loved movies and often snuck into that cinema in the dead of night when it was emptiest. I’d go too—sometimes it was just the two of us in that huge theater. You always sat in the middle row; I was always in the back. I wanted to muster the courage to say hi so many times… but I never did.】

【See? I’m such a coward.】

Jiang Zhizhou read it all, word for word, then set her phone aside. Propping her head on her arm, she recalled the bloodshot, puffy eyes Jiang Qingmeng had that day. A tangle of emotions stirred within her—complicated, with a faint undercurrent of discomfort.

She had accidentally glimpsed a deeply private confession. Even if it was about her, those words had been meant for the dead.

Yes, those words had been meant for the late Jiang Zhizhou, not for the surviving “Shen Xinghe.”

She hesitated for a few seconds before picking up her phone and staring at the screen, reading the messages over several times.

Actually… there was nothing uncomfortable about it at all. It was just a fan who liked her—sincere, genuine, pure, with that tentative hint of affection. How rare was that? But some of the words were written so tenderly and intricately, almost as if they had been penned for a lover…

The thought startled Jiang Zhizhou. After her mind blanked out for a few seconds, reason kicked in, telling her the possibility was slim. For one thing, the two of them had never had much direct contact, so how could such groundless admiration spring up? For another, it wasn’t unusual for fans to pour out passionate confessions to their favorite actors. These days, there were even those who claimed they’d live or die for their idols.

One shouldn’t let themselves get too carried away with delusions of romance.

Having dismissed that far-fetched idea with logic, Jiang Zhizhou glanced at Jiang Qingmeng’s messages a few more times. The more she read, the warmer her heart grew, and a smile slowly curved her lips. But then she gradually let the smile fade, furrowing her brow as she pondered their encounter eight years ago, when Jiang Qingmeng had been just twelve. Why couldn’t she remember a thing about it?

Jiang Zhizhou mulled it over all night long. Her head throbbed from the effort, but still nothing came to her. Finally, exhaustion overtook her, and she fell asleep.

That night, she dreamed. In the dream, she was still Jiang Zhizhou, rising and falling in that gaudy world of fame and fortune. One moment, she stood triumphant under the glaring spotlights; the next, paparazzi swarmed her, hurling curses and slander. Fans shouted “I love you!” only for netizens to scream “Get out of the entertainment industry!”… She found it all rather pointless. But just then, a voice called from behind her—gentle and sincere, hauntingly familiar. She turned, and her gaze tumbled into a pair of amber eyes, soft as gentle waters…