Morning came gray and heavy. A faint mist clung to the city streets, softening the edges of buildings, as though the world itself had bowed its head.
At the funeral home, incense burned low. Qing Yun stood beside Gu Ze Yan as the final rites began.
She had insisted on simplicity—no lavish wreaths, no extravagant ceremony. Only chrysanthemums, white candles, and the soft chanting of scripture. The beauty lay in the quiet.
Si Yao's coffin was closed, lined with the things Qing Yun had placed the day before: the plushie, the blanket, the storybook, medals of her victories, and her pink embroidered dress. All that remained were the whispers of her short but brilliant life.
When the coffin lid lowered, Qing Yun's lips moved, almost soundless:
"Don't be afraid, Xiao Yao. Jiejie is here."
---
The neighbors came again. Aunties sobbed into tissues, uncles bowed deeply, their shoulders shaking. Si Yao's teachers wept openly, repeating that she was the brightest student they had ever taught.
One boy lingered near the altar—the same handsome classmate from yesterday. His eyes were red, his face drawn. When Qing Yun walked past, he lowered his head in a silent bow, unable to speak. She gave him a small smile, gentle as always, and moved on.
---
Luminar's management team attended as well. Chen Rui carried trays of tea with uncharacteristic solemnity; Shen Qiao coordinated the line of mourners, every motion precise. For once, the entire company bent not for profit, but for love of the woman their founder loved.
Mei Lian and Xin Yue returned, holding Qing Yun's hands as though she might dissolve if they let go. Mei Lian whispered that she wished she could take some of Qing Yun's pain. Xin Yue cried quietly into her sleeve, repeating, jiejie, we're here.
Ze Yan stood at Qing Yun's side throughout, his hand never far from hers.
---
The cremation began.
The coffin was carried slowly, the sound of footsteps echoing in the still hall. Qing Yun followed, her steps steady, her gaze calm. She did not cry. She only walked forward, her back straight, her hands clasped before her.
Ze Yan clenched his fists at his sides, his throat aching.
As the flames were lit, a low hum filled the air. Mourners bowed, incense smoke curled. Qing Yun closed her eyes for the first time, lips parting just enough to whisper:
"Go peacefully, Xiao Yao."
No tears fell. Only silence.
---
Later, the urn was placed into the grave Ze Yan had prepared. It was a quiet cemetery on a hillside, where osmanthus trees swayed gently. The winter air carried a faint fragrance, sweet and sorrowful.
Qing Yun knelt, placing her palms together. She bowed deeply three times, her forehead nearly touching the cold stone. Then she placed Si Yao's photo against the marker, her voice steady:
"You've worked so hard, Yao Yao. Rest well now."
She placed the rabbit-shaped tangyuan's porcelain dish at the base of the stone, though the little dumpling inside had hardened. It was not food anymore, but a promise kept.
---
When all was done, mourners began to leave, murmuring condolences.
Qing Yun remained still, her gaze soft on the fresh mound of earth. Her lips curved into the faintest smile, one that carried more love than grief. To the world, she seemed unshaken.
But Gu Ze Yan, standing just behind her, could feel the storm she held inside. He wanted to gather her into his arms, to shield her from everything. Yet she only reached back, touched his hand lightly, and whispered,
"Let's go home."
---
That night, after they returned to his apartment, Qing Yun washed quietly, changed into soft pajamas, and looked at the pile of unpacked belongings from her old apartment.
Her gaze lingered. She sighed once, softly, and then turned away.
In the bedroom, Ze Yan was already waiting. She smiled at him warmly, stepped forward, and wrapped her arms around him.
"Goodnight, Ze Yan," she said.
Her voice was gentle, warm, almost too warm—like the calm before a storm.