> "When a memory cries, it's because it still wants to be remembered."
— Curtain's Edge Bookstore Memoir, Page Three
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It was raining again.
Not the kind of storm that raged, but the kind that made the world sound like a lullaby.
Linyue stood under the awning of the café, watching the thin threads of rain fall through the yellow glow of the streetlights.
Beside him, Ye Qing held her umbrella, but didn't open it.
"You know," she said softly, "since we visited that painter, he hasn't shown up again."
"He's trying to remember," Linyue replied.
He tapped his fingers against the silver book in his coat pocket—it had stopped glowing since that night, as if holding its breath.
Ye Qing frowned. "Do you think… that bookstore is dangerous?"
Linyue's eyes darkened slightly. "It's not evil," he said. "It just gives people what they ask for. Whether they should ask for it—that's another story."
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The next morning, a letter arrived at Sunny Sky Coffee.
The paper was old and uneven, the ink slightly smudged.
It simply read:
> 'Come to the lake at dusk. She's waiting.'
No name. Just a faint scent of turpentine and lilies.
Ye Qing looked at Linyue.
"Do we go?"
"Of course," he said quietly. "If she's waiting… we can't be late."
---
The lake lay still as glass when they arrived.
The world had turned to watercolor again—grey sky, rippling reflections, reeds swaying like whispers.
And there she was.
A girl sitting on a wooden pier, long hair trailing over her shoulder.
She looked almost transparent, like she was made of wet paint that hadn't dried.
Her eyes shimmered, filled with something fragile—grief, maybe, or longing.
When she turned, Linyue felt his breath catch.
It was her—the girl from the paintings.
But her face flickered, blurring every few seconds.
"Are you…" Ye Qing began, voice trembling, "the girl from his art?"
The girl smiled faintly.
"Was," she said. "I was his muse. His light. But when he asked to forget me, I became just another unfinished line."
Her voice was soft, almost too calm.
Every word rippled through the air like a drop falling into still water.
"I thought if I vanished, he'd stop hurting."
Her gaze drifted to the lake. "But I didn't know that memories… can cry too."
---
Linyue knelt beside her.
"The book took your name, didn't it?"
She nodded. "It asked me for a memory in return. I gave it myself."
The silver mark on the book in Linyue's pocket began to hum again—faintly, like a heartbeat.
Ye Qing clenched her fists. "Then we'll take it back!"
The girl shook her head.
"If he remembers me now, he'll remember the pain too. The loss, the reason he wanted to forget."
Tears slipped down her cheek, but when they touched her skin, they turned into drops of paint and dissolved into the air.
---
Suddenly, a faint echo carried across the water.
A voice—hoarse but familiar.
"...I remember now."
The painter stood on the far side of the lake, his coat fluttering in the wind.
In his hands, he carried a canvas—unfinished, the colors still wet.
He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the girl.
"You were the one who smiled for me," he whispered.
"The one who made my colors real."
The girl's eyes widened. "You… remembered?"
He smiled sadly. "I did. And I'll keep remembering, no matter how much it hurts."
He set the canvas on the pier and dipped his brush into the water, mixing the lake with his paint.
Then he painted her—stroke by stroke—onto the blank space that once held nothing but light.
When he finished, she smiled through her tears.
"Thank you," she said softly.
The wind blew gently, and her form shimmered like morning dew.
Her last tear fell onto the painting—
and the world rippled, just once, like a curtain fluttering before the stage lights go out.
---
When Linyue opened his eyes again, the pier was empty.
Only the canvas remained—dry, and complete.
The girl's image on it was radiant and still, smiling eternally beside the water.
Ye Qing exhaled shakily. "She's… gone?"
Linyue looked at the painting. "No," he said quietly.
"She just went home—to where memories rest."
He took out the silver-marked book. Its cover was warm now, almost alive.
A new line of writing shimmered across the front:
> "To forget is mercy. To remember is love."
The rain began again, faint and musical.
Linyue closed the book gently.
Somewhere deep within its pages, a new door seemed to open—
and something whispered, "Welcome back, Linyue."
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