When sunlight spilled into the house, the dining table was already set.

It was a very ordinary home-cooked meal.

A few vegetable dishes, a pot of simmered soup.
The tableware was arranged neatly, chopstick tips aligned with the rims of the bowls, as if the distances had been measured on purpose.

As Jiang Zhilin sat down, his mother was ladling fish soup into a bowl.

“Why didn’t you say you were coming back this week?”

“I suddenly felt like eating home cooking, so I came back.”

His father didn’t speak. He kept his head down, eating, only occasionally placing food into Jiang Zhilin’s bowl.

“How have you been lately?”

“Mm.”

“And work? Didn’t you say the end of the month would be busy?”

“It just wrapped up.”

His mother nodded and didn’t ask further.

Silence settled over the table for a while, broken only by the soft clink of bowls and chopsticks.

Fish soup was very hot. When he drank it, it scalded his tongue.

Tip of his tongue stung slightly.
No frown followed—only the bowl set down a little.

He ate slowly.
Each time he lifted the spoon, it brushed lightly against the edge of the bowl.

After noon, the weather grew a little warmer, and the streets took on their usual restlessness.

He walked without hurry, passing through stretch after stretch of familiar roads.
His heels struck the paving stones, each step clear and distinct.

Police station stood just ahead, its sign glowing a faint blue.
Along the wall, a national flag had faded with time;
when wind stirred it, it looked especially worn.

Inside, the corridor was quiet.
The duty officer behind the counter was flipping through documents and nodded upon seeing him.

He acknowledged it lightly, without slowing his pace.

Instead of heading for his office, he turned a corner and pushed open the chief’s door.

It wasn’t locked—two knocks, and he went straight in.

The chief looked up, his gaze pausing for a beat.

“You’re back?”

He didn’t sit down.
Instead, he lifted a hand and placed an envelope on the desk.

“This is…?”

“My resignation.”

Air stalled for a brief moment.

“You’ve thought it through?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve done good work.”

“This is as far as I go.”

Chief lowered his eyes to the envelope and didn’t ask for reasons.

“Want me to buy you a few days?”

“No. Submitting it today is just right.”

“…I won’t try to keep you. But if you ever regret it, this place will still be here.”

He said nothing—only gave a slight nod and turned to leave.

The door wasn’t fully closed;
when it shut, it made a very soft knock.

When he returned to the apartment, the sunlight had not yet faded.

He pushed the door open without turning on the lights.
A motion sensor lamp in the entryway flickered on, then shut itself off again.

Place was so quiet it felt as though no one had ever lived there.

As usual, he changed his shoes and washed his hands, then went into the room, pulled out a storage box, and began placing things inside one by one.

Folding, sorting, packing—each movement was light, almost soundless.

He paused for a few seconds at the drawer beside the desk. Fingers brushed the handle, then quietly withdrew.

It remained unopened.

There weren’t many clothes in the wardrobe, nor much in the way of daily necessities to choose from.

He didn’t rush, yet everything flowed smoothly, as if carrying out a procedure long since planned.

At last, he stopped by the window.

That windowsill—the place where flowers, a letter, and the two silver bracelets had once rested—was now empty.

No flowers. No vase.

No paper, no glint of metal.

Only a ring of light lay quietly along the clean window frame, like a space hollowed out by time.

He didn’t look again.

The door closed behind him.

Click.

February 19 —
a quiet night when love took root without a sound.

April 13 —
the day he gave blood, and heart.

April 14 —
a turn of fate, delayed.

June 13 —
a single shot to the throat,
an ending where all words fell silent.

A love that had lasted too long.

One wound.

One death.

A lifetime left behind.