Bai Li did not open it herself. She placed it in Yan Cijin's hands. Yan Cijin hesitated only a little before lifting the lid.
Inside was a memory chip, polished and engraved with a small moonflower, and beneath it a folded note written in Bai Li's handwriting.
Yan Cijin read the note first.
For the days when the world gets too loud. For the days when you forget what you have built. For our daughter, when she is older. For you, when you need to remember that even the hard parts were never bigger than the love.
Yan Cijin looked up very slowly.
Bai Li had gone a little quiet now, and that in itself was almost more emotional than any speech. "I made a record," she said. "Messages from people who love us. Clips from the early years. A few photos. Some things from before Lili was born. Things I thought you might want later."
Yan Cijin held the note with both hands. "You did all this?"
