The year Jiang Yuanchuan left, Lin Zhilan was only twenty-five.
Everyone told her to move on, to begin anew.
But she knew — once someone lived in your heart, they could never be erased.
He left behind a thick diary.
The handwriting messy, yet each page full.
"Zhilan, you drank three cups of milk tea today, I'm worried about your teeth."
"Zhilan, I really want to grow old with you."
"Zhilan, if one day I'm gone, please go see the sea for me."
As she read, tears blurred the words.
He was gone, yet his words still breathed.
So, with his diary in hand, she began to travel alone.
To Yunnan, to see the snowy mountains.
To Xiamen, to watch the waves.
To Kyoto, to see the maple leaves.
To Paris, to see the tower.
She took photos and pasted them beside his words, as if truly completing the unfinished journey for him.
Late at night, she often whispered into the empty room:
"Yuanchuan, look, I've walked our world for you."
Years passed, loneliness stretched on.
She sometimes smiled, often cried, but never once forgot the boy who left her poems in the rain.
Many years later, she grew old.
Her hair white, hands wrinkled, but her gaze still soft.
One day, she walked to his grave, carrying the pen.
The inscription had long faded, but the faint line still remained:
**'Keep writing, and we will always be together.'**
She placed the pen down gently, smiling through tears.
"Jiang Yuanchuan, I'll come find you soon. Wait for me."
The wind stirred, as if someone whispered in her ear:
"All right."
And so, the story ended.
They could not finish this life, but promised the next with all their hearts.