The funeral home smelled faintly of incense and chrysanthemums. A gray sky pressed close against the tall windows, and the stillness inside felt different from hospitals. Here, everything was quieter, slower, like even air dared not disturb the grief that lived in the halls.
Qing Yun and Gu Ze Yan handed over the dress she had chosen for her sister—the soft pink embroidered one with the cap sleeves shaped into a bow. The funeral attendant bowed, cradling it with reverence, and promised they would bathe Si Yao and dress her carefully.
Qing Yun whispered a thank you. Her voice was calm, steady, like polished glass.
Ze Yan pressed his hand lightly against her back as they were guided to the waiting lounge. Rows of wooden chairs lined the room; chrysanthemums filled tall porcelain vases against the walls. A small altar glowed with muted light. They sat side by side.
Qing Yun's hands lay folded in her lap. Ze Yan covered them with his own, startled by how cold her fingers were. He tightened his grip instinctively.
Time stretched long. A clock ticked faintly. The shuffle of staff footsteps came and went, but nothing entered their silence.
When the mortician finally appeared, she smiled gently and gestured for Qing Yun to follow.
"Everything is ready," she said softly.
Ze Yan rose too, but when they reached the door of the preparation room, he hesitated. A flicker of fear crossed his eyes. Qing Yun touched his wrist briefly, her faint smile saying let me go first. He nodded, staying behind.
---
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of soap. The mortician had worked with skill and kindness.
Si Yao lay on the table, her body washed, dressed in the pink dress Qing Yun had chosen. The wounds hidden, her eyes finally closed. She looked like she was merely napping after a long study session—peaceful, untroubled, her hair spread softly against the pillow.
The mortician turned to Qing Yun with a kind expression. "Would you like to help me with the finishing touches?"
Qing Yun stepped forward.
Her fingers didn't tremble as she picked up the powder brush. She dusted Si Yao's cheeks gently, as though afraid of disturbing her sleep.
Next came the lipstick—a soft pink, the same shade she once joked about wearing when she turned eighteen. Qing Yun applied it with care, her breath steady.
She picked up the hairbrush and began to smooth Si Yao's hair. Each stroke was slow, deliberate, filled with memories: brushing her sister's hair before school, braiding it on festival mornings, smoothing it down whenever Si Yao pouted.
"You're beautiful," Qing Yun whispered inside her heart. "You'll always be beautiful."
Her lips curved faintly, the kind of smile that carried both love and unbearable weight.
---
Outside the door, Ze Yan pressed his forehead to the cool wall of the corridor. He could not make himself step in. The sight of Qing Yun's tenderness toward her sister threatened to undo him completely.
He clenched his fists, swallowed hard, and whispered to himself, Stay strong for her. Don't let her see you break.
But his eyes burned, his chest ached, and he paced the corridor like a man lost in his own storm.
---
Back inside, Qing Yun was given a moment alone.
The mortician bowed and quietly left, closing the door.
The room was silent again. Only her sister remained.
Qing Yun looked down at Si Yao, dressed, serene, her lips colored like spring blossoms. She stroked her sister's head slowly, over and over, as if each stroke carried all her wishes, all her unspoken words.
She chuckled softly when she noticed the pale shimmer of the eyeshadow. "You'd like this color, Si Yao… it suits you."
Her chest rose and fell with the weight of memories.
Seventeen. Just seventeen. A genius girl who had already conquered competitions, who spoke of universities overseas with stars in her eyes, who laughed shyly about her crush, who had once clung to her sister's hand saying she wanted to grow up fast.
Qing Yun's vision blurred, but no tears fell. She bent closer, her lips nearly brushing her sister's ear.
"Rest well, Si Yao," she whispered, her tone calm, tender, unbearably steady. "You have done your best. Jie is so proud of you."
She kissed her sister's forehead lightly, sealing all her love in that touch.
Then she straightened, her hand still lingering on Si Yao's hair for a final stroke. Her smile trembled but remained—because she wanted Si Yao remembered not in sorrow, but in beauty.
---
When she stepped out of the preparation room, her face was pale but serene. Ze Yan looked up instantly, searching her eyes.
She only gave him that faint, quiet smile.
He exhaled, shoulders sagging with both pain and admiration. He reached out and took her hand. She let him, their fingers weaving together.
In that silence, Ze Yan realized what terrified him most: not her grief, but her strength. A strength so calm it felt like it was built on breaking.
And he vowed, silently, that he would never let her carry it alone again.