Chapter 37 Part 1

Xu Lanmeng told her to wait in the living room.

When Xu Lanmeng stepped into one of the bedrooms, Yun Chun’s heart seemed to stop. Or rather, it didn’t stop entirely—its rhythm and sound just slowed to a crawl, growing faint and hushed.

It was like the night sky just before fireworks ignited: so still that only the twinkling stars pierced the darkness, so sluggish that even the breeze could catch it effortlessly.

Too much time had passed, yet the images of Yun Yueqin in her mind hadn’t faded with the years. On the contrary, her longing had sharpened them. Yun Yueqin’s face grew ever clearer, her voice echoing constantly in Yun Chun’s thoughts. Sometimes, on the street, a voice remotely like hers would make Yun Chun pause and turn, only to smile wistfully at the sight of a stranger, then continue on her solitary path.

The most vivid memory, the one that haunted her dreams night after night, wasn’t some joyful moment from childhood. It was Yun Yueqin lying in a hospital bed, her face deathly pale, her spirit worn thin by relentless pain, yet still mustering every ounce of strength to curve her lips into a gentle smile. “Yunyun,” she would say, “Mommy doesn’t hurt.”

How could it not hurt? Her hands were riddled with needle marks, no patch of skin left unbroken. When there were no fresh spots, newly healed punctures were stabbed open again. The medicine swallowed with water came right back up moments later; during that time, she could stomach nothing but thin porridge, her belly perpetually empty. And that was just the beginning—there was so much more…

Of course it hurt, but Yun Yueqin never made a sound, fearing Yun Chun would worry. The faint furrow of her brow spoke volumes instead.

Yun Chun claimed she hadn’t cried much during that period, but the truth was that she’d sobbed in secret so many times behind her mother’s back that the tears had numbed her to the very act of weeping. She could only remember reaching the point where no more would come.

Even on the day Yun Yueqin passed, when Yun Chun couldn’t be there for her final moments, only a few drops fell from her eyes.

It wasn’t a lack of grief or sorrow—it was numbness.

Though she’d scrambled desperately to scrape together money for surgery, though she’d kept reassuring Yun Yueqin that everything would be fine, a small corner of Yun Chun’s heart had known better. It knew the outcome might not bend to her wishes. That tiny space held just one thing: the event she dreaded most. Yet that sliver outweighed every prayer filling the rest of her heart. Like a single drop of ink staining an entire sheet of paper.

Death isn’t instantaneous.

For the dying, the heart may stop beating, but true death lingers. Organs keep functioning; they might even hear voices from the outside world. Only when the blood flow ceases, body heat ebbs away, and softness turns to rigor does it truly end.

For the living, losing someone close is like contracting an incurable chronic illness. It’s a long, agonizing process. Memories of the departed never vanish. At any moment, in any place, at the sight of some trivial object tied to them, that person springs back to life. Even if your attention shifts to other matters, they persist in your mind, living peacefully in the world you’ve built there, just as before.

But for Yun Chun, the weight of Yun Yueqin’s suffering in her final days made those hospital images her deepest regret, her most tormenting recollection. She often wondered why she hadn’t grown up faster back then, why she couldn’t have earned more money—enough to cover the exorbitant surgery costs, at least half of them. Why…

She knew it wasn’t her fault, but these past few years, those questions haunted her relentlessly, tormenting her over and over.

The sight of Yun Yueqin on that sickbed was a shadow Yun Chun couldn’t easily dispel. So when a figure emerged from the bedroom—dressed simply, hair in a ponytail, looking much younger than Yun Chun herself—the fuse of the fireworks Yun Chun had just lit sputtered out. She stared, stunned, at the person before her. Though diminished in size, those features were etched into her heart; no matter how Yun Yueqin changed, Yun Chun would always recognize them. What left her dazed was how utterly different this Yun Yueqin was from her memories. No more shock of white hair, no gaunt, skeletal frame, no forcing a smile through the pain each day to say, “Baby, take good care of yourself.”

Instead, her round face bore no trace of the years, framed by thick brows and bright eyes, cheeks flushed with health.

She looked… healthy.

Incredibly healthy.

The fuse reignited in an instant.

Boom! The explosion shattered the night sky.

Radiant fireworks lit up the darkness overhead.

“…Mom.”

Her heartbeat thundered like fireworks, and Yun Chun heard her own throat rasp, the word emerging low and hoarse. She thought no one else could hear it.

But the figure before her did.

Yun Yueqin approached, let out a soft “Ah,” her eyes reddening as she smiled and raised a hand. Her palm gently cupped Yun Chun’s cheek. “You’re so thin. Have you been eating properly? And how did you get so tall?”

She’d only reached Yun Yueqin’s shoulder before; now she towered over her by a head and a half.

The cool touch on her face told Yun Chun this wasn’t a dream. She had really found Yun Yueqin again. A lump like a boulder blocked her throat. Choking back sobs, she managed, “…Mom.”

With that, fat teardrops spilled from her eyes. Hiding her tears from her mother had become instinct, but as they flowed unchecked, Yun Chun bent down, burying her face in Yun Yueqin’s neck. She clutched her fiercely, savoring the reunion.

She tried to hide, but her trembling shoulders and broken sobs gave her away.

Yun Yueqin cried too, though with a smile. Confined to the hospital for years, she’d never seen Yun Chun’s face. Stepping out earlier, she hadn’t even recognized her own child.

She’d changed… the lines of her face softer now.

Grown up so much.

It was a good thing.

“Mom,” Yun Chun murmured, still clinging to her.

Yun Yueqin stroked her back gently. “Ah.”

Yun Chun lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder, gazing straight at her.

She sniffed, wiping the tears pooled in her eyes with the back of her hand.

Her lips parted. “Mom.”

Yun Yueqin reached out to brush away the tears beneath her eyes. “Ah.”

Yun Chun said nothing more, just called again, “Mom.”

Yun Yueqin understood. Smiling, she said, “Baby, Mommy’s here.”

Yun Chun broke then, sobbing aloud. “Mom…”

She had so many words pent up inside, desperate to pour out to Yun Yueqin. But when she opened her mouth, they all distilled into that one syllable.

The one she’d thought she’d never hear answered again.

Finally…

Finally, in this hopeless life, calling “Mom” once more brought not the chill of empty air brushing past, but Yun Yueqin’s voice in reply.

Finally.

~~~

On the sofa.

In the span of an hour, Yun Yueqin learned the gist of what Yun Chun had been through in the years since her death.

Older generations always believed studying was the path to success—the only respectable way, without which you couldn’t even find work. It had to be done. Hearing that Yun Chun had dropped out of school after her passing filled Yun Yueqin with deep guilt. But even as she blamed herself, she knew where the real fault lay: with Lü Feng. And so, Yun Chun—who’d never heard her mother curse—listened as Yun Yueqin railed against him for over half an hour.

Yun Chun sat quietly beside her, smiling as she listened. So this was what it felt like to have a mother who cared.

So strange. So familiar.

Just as Yun Yueqin was getting worked up in her tirade, Xu Lanmeng emerged from the bedroom, where she’d given them space. She fixed Yun Yueqin with a cold stare.

She said nothing, but it silenced Yun Yueqin instantly.

As Yun Yueqin pressed her lips together, Yun Chun glanced at Xu Lanmeng in confusion.

Xu Lanmeng’s gaze flicked toward Yun Chun. “Don’t let your mom get too worked up.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and retreated into the bedroom.

The door clicked shut, leaving a few seconds of silence on the sofa.

Xu Lanmeng’s presence had calmed Yun Yueqin in a heartbeat; even if she wanted to keep cursing, the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she took Yun Chun’s hand. “Baby, tell Mommy about your modeling. Did you get to wear lots of pretty clothes? Travel to all sorts of places?”

“Mm.” Yun Chun began sharing the highlights of her work.

She spoke only of the joys, skipping the hardships. But Yun Yueqin could guess at them. Yun Chun hadn’t been a great student, but she’d been quick-witted and silver-tongued—a gift that eased some suffering, though never all of it. With no background or degree, forging her own path meant plenty of toil.

Yun Yueqin’s heart ached as she listened, regretting that she hadn’t been there for her daughter’s growth, leaving the child to shoulder everything alone.

Not even a safe harbor to shelter in.

A thought struck her. “Little Treasure, are you dating anyone?”

Yun Chun had just paused to take a sip of water. At the question, she shook her head. “No.”

She lifted the teacup Xu Lanmeng had poured for her; the tea had gone cold. A small sip soothed the dryness in her mouth. Then she heard the voice beside her ask, “What about someone you like?”

Yun Chun reflexively started to say no, but catching her reflection in the cup, a pair of rainy eyes flashed in her mind—the figure serene as a lake.

She had seen that reflection in Lu Qingxue’s gaze before.

The brownish tea gleamed clear in the cup, sharp enough to show her face distinctly. Yet Yun Chun felt that image paled beside Lu Qingxue’s eyes.

Lu Qingxue’s pitch-black eyes reflected Yun Chun’s face with such pristine clarity that every smile and frown was perfectly visible.

That level of high definition gave Yun Chun pause. Was it the pure clarity of Lu Qingxue’s gaze that let her see herself so sharply? Or did Lu Qingxue’s eyes hold nothing but her image, making the reflection on the lake’s surface crystal clear no matter how she looked?

Her mouth grew dry again even before she spoke. Yun Chun tilted her head back and drained the tea from her cup in one gulp.

No longer catching sight of her reflection, Yun Chun turned to Yun Yueqin with a smile. “Nothing at all.”

Yun Yueqin furrowed her brow, about to respond, when the bedroom door across from them creaked open once more. Xu Lanmeng stood in the doorway and called out to Yun Yueqin, “I’m hungry.”

Yun Yueqin glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw it was nearly one o’clock. She rose quickly and asked Xu Lanmeng, “What would you like to eat?”

Xu Lanmeng replied, “Haven’t we already bought everything?”

Yun Yueqin said, “Those are all things Little Yun loves. What do you want?”

Xu Lanmeng shrugged. “I’ll just eat whatever she does.”

Yun Yueqin smiled. “Alright then.”

Yun Chun, watching from the side, felt a puzzled “?” form in her mind.

Something felt off to her, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Yun Yueqin turned to Yun Chun. “Mom remembers you love Sprite, but we don’t have any at home. Want me to go out and grab a bottle?”

Back in the village as a kid, the little shop didn’t stock many sodas—just cola, Sprite, and fruit orange drinks.

Yun Chun had adored Sprite, with its sweet lemon taste and the fun pop of bubbles in her mouth.