"Hi, Father," Zhou Yuxi said softly, and her voice broke on the word—cracked open like a dam finally giving way, raw with everything she had held back on the rocks, on the boat, in the treatment bay. The single syllable carried the weight of all the years they had lost and all the hours they had nearly lost again.
Something in Jin Chengyu's face cracked completely.
It started in his eyes—a sudden wetness that spilled over before he could blink it away—then traveled down to his mouth, which twisted into something between a smile and a sob, and finally to his hands, which reached out toward her as if pulled by a force he couldn't resist.
"Yuxi?" he whispered, the single syllable trembling, barely audible, as if speaking it louder might make her vanish again. As if the universe might hear and take back its gift.
