The curtains in the living room were left open.
Sunlight spilled in, spreading a pale wash of gold across the floor.

Jiang Zhilin sat in front of the sofa, his back against the corner of the wall.
A blanket was draped carelessly over his legs.
Beside him lay a half-finished bottle of liquor and an unfinished boxed meal.

Seemingly just awake—
or perhaps not having slept at all.
A blankness without expression held his face, eyes open yet unfocused.

After the operation ended, he hadn’t returned to the unit.

Leave was taken.
No one was contacted.

The phone lay somewhere in the apartment—where, he didn’t know. The battery was dead, and he hadn’t bothered to look for it.

He simply stayed at home, never turning on the lights, the entire place feeling as though it had been forgotten.

Until the doorbell rang.

At first, there was no reaction.

It rang again.
Only then did he slowly push himself to his feet, expending considerable effort just to make his bones move again.

He walked to the door and opened it.

Standing there was a delivery courier in uniform, holding a bouquet of white flowers in his arms.

“Excuse me—are you Mr. Jiang Zhilin?”

He hesitated for half a second, then nodded.

“Yes.”

“Please sign here. This is the flower delivery scheduled for today. Thank you.”

The courier handed the bouquet to him, then brought out a tablet for his signature.

He lowered his head, signed, and took the flowers.

There was no card.

No name.

And yet, the moment the bouquet settled into his hands, something tightened in his chest, as if it had been gripped.

It was an arranged bundle of white flowers—
white balloon flowers and white roses.
The wrapping was clean and understated, without any excess decoration.

The scent was familiar.

Something he had encountered before—so faint it was almost imperceptible.

Cradling the flowers, he walked back into the living room.

The light outside the window had already slid from the floor up onto the wall.
Seated in the shadows, head lowered, gazing at the bouquet in his hands.

Fingers brushed against something hard.

At the center of the flowers, pressed beneath a thin ribbon, was an envelope.

He set the bouquet on his lap and carefully drew it out—
a plain white envelope.
Not thick, yet it carried a certain weight.

As if… something was inside.

He opened it and tipped its contents into his palm.

A silver bracelet.

His heart missed a beat.

The same as the one on his own wrist… exactly the same…

It was the one he had given away on their anniversary.

And the one he had never seen the other wear again.

The metal lay cold in his palm,
as if it had just returned from another world.

Breath held for two seconds.
Then his gaze lifted, and the envelope was slowly turned over.
Fingers slipped past the opening, drawing out the single sheet inside.

Handwritten.

The lines were straight and clear.

No salutation.
No signature.

Only those few lines, standing cleanly on the page.

     Do you still like the flowers I gave you?

     The day I stabbed you… at the hospital, you mentioned white balloon flowers.
     I thought you might like them.

     So I chose a few more, and added some white roses as well.

     They look… acceptable, I think.

     I know I owe you an explanation.

     Someone had been watching me for a long time.
     In the end, you were pulled into it too.

     At that point, I had no other choice.

     I didn’t have much time left.

     If I did nothing, neither of us would have made it.

     I know this is something you can’t accept.
     But for me, it was the only way left to keep you safe.

     I’m not asking you to forgive me.
     I only hope… you won’t blame yourself for this.

     None of this was your fault.

     I just… wanted you to live.

     Just live.

He stared at the letter for several seconds before finally lifting his hand and unfolding it with care.

The handwriting was familiar, the tone restrained—yet line by line, it carved its way into his heart.

He read slowly, afraid of missing even a single word.

The paper trembled slightly;
he couldn’t tell whether it was him shaking,
or the bracelet simply too cold.

Only when the final line settled did he seem to remember how to breathe—
a faint, hoarse sound escaping from deep in his throat.

His entire body was wound tight, knuckles blanching, veins standing out even on the back of his hand.

—I just wanted you to live.

A single tear slid down in silence, landing on the letter and blurring one line of ink into a softened stain.

As if unaware, the gaze remained fixed on the page, trying to brand every stroke into bone.

The bracelet clenched in his palm grew warm, metal pressed against skin—burning, and yet cold.

Watching its curve and sheen, his lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

At last, it became clear—the look that day, the words never spoken, the redemption he had believed he could win.

Only now did he understand: all of it had already come too late.

His head lowered, forehead resting slowly against the back of his hand.
No sound—yet inch by inch, he collapsed inward.