"Some people die once. Others live carrying the echoes."
⸻
He would never admit it out loud.
But Xue Zhen couldn't sleep without her.
Not anymore.
He'd lie down at midnight, close his eyes—
Then open them again at 12:03.
12:17.
12:34.
Always checking.
Always expecting a knock on the door.
Always hoping for a message that would never come.
Eventually, he stopped trying.
His body was starting to fail him.
And somehow, he felt like it was to be expected.
And every night, around 1AM, he would walk to the dimmed living room.
Mr. Yuwen would already be there, sitting quietly in his corner.
Between them: an old lamp with a soft hum, a pot of tea, and the soft ticking of the wall clock he would later find "annoyingly punctual."
The TV was on mute.
Always playing that same old drama.
The one she had watched on loop during recovery.
"She loved this show," Mr. Yuwen would say.
"Said the heroine was like her—foolish, but persistent."
Xue Zhen never interrupted.
He simply listened.
One story became two.
Two turned into ten.
And still, it never felt like enough.
⸻
"She failed Home Economics once. Because she refused to make dumplings using pork.
Wouldn't touch it. Said the pig was cuter than her cousin."
That one made him smile.
Not fully. But just enough to remember what his smile used to feel like.
⸻
The tea was always hot between them.
Mr. Yuwen poured another cup in practiced silence.
Xue Zhen didn't touch his.
They had fallen into this ritual—
Nights when the air felt heavier than grief.
When the guilt weighed louder than any clock.
"She used to scribble on the corners of her textbooks," the butler murmured.
"Quotes she heard from you. Even ones you didn't mean seriously."
Xue Zhen let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a sob.
There was no sound. Only ache.
"She once forced me to say something motivational just so she could write it down," Mr. Yuwen continued.
"Then used it against me for months."
There was no bitterness in his tone.
Only memory.
Only love.
⸻
These nights were full of stories.
Of moments they clung to because that's all that was left.
Sometimes they laughed.
Sometimes they didn't speak at all.
But they never mentioned that year.
Never the one that started it all.
They never spoke of when she was sixteen.
Never said the word gland.
Never uttered the name of the clinic.
Never asked what she was told, or who stayed beside her after.
Because to speak of it meant accepting it.
And to accept it...
Was to confirm again,
That she died.
And they had let her.
⸻
Xue Zhen stared into his untouched tea, his voice barely a whisper:
"Tell me another story, Mr. Yuwen."
"Something from when she was ten. Or thirteen. Or seventeen."
The butler paused, then gave a quiet bow of the head.
"Very well, young master."
"Seventeen then. That was the year she learned to use the family seal. She cried when she stamped it wrong and begged me to iron the paper flat before you saw it."
"Did I?"
"You laughed. Then said it looked better with the crease."
⸻
When the butler no longer had stories to distract him from the pain,
Xue Zhen would reach for the box of cards again.
Some were bent at the edges.
Others had tiny flower stickers.
One had a lipstick kiss on the corner.
Another had been taped back together from being torn.
He flipped through them in silence.
⸻
🗓️ Year 28, Day 27
I think I hate everyone today.
They call me weak.
But what do you do when even your own body betrays you?
Sometimes I want to scream.
But I'm too tired.
And screaming makes you look like a lunatic.
⸻
He held the last one a little longer.
Then placed it gently back into the box, aligning it perfectly with the rest—as if it deserved that much.
He didn't move for a while.
Didn't speak.
The ache in his chest didn't fade.
But the silence...
the silence didn't hurt the same.
He exhaled—slowly, like breathing in the truth.
"She lived. She really lived."
And in this new ritual,
in the small weight of each card,
she was no longer a memory fading in hospital beds and banquet photos.
She was present.
She was remembered.
She was real.