When the news of Chen Tao's divorce reached her, Li Ming simply sat quietly by the window, holding a cup of warm coffee in her hands. Autumn sunlight streamed in, scattering soft patches of light across the tabletop. Her thoughts were calm—neither joy nor sorrow stirred—like water flowing slowly along a river, serene, yet with a clear sense of direction.
In her heart, that relationship seemed already set aside. Chen Tao's presence was no longer a blazing passion, but a carefully preserved warmth—something she could reach for at any time without depending on it. She understood that the bond had already fulfilled its purpose.
Life gradually returned to routine. On her office desk, documents, notes, and her computer screen were neatly arranged. Design plans flowed through her hands; her fingers traced lines gently, her breathing synchronized with each stroke. Outside, the wind stirred the branches, sunlight danced over fallen leaves, and she stepped steadily through puddles and leaf litter, moving in quiet rhythm as if breathing together with the city.
Washington life unfolded slowly, like fabric laid thread by thread. Work, evening walks, occasional discussions with Da Wei about project details and progress—her days had a fixed rhythm, a space that belonged solely to her. Chen Tao returned to his life in Paris; she neither followed nor rushed to find another relationship. There was warmth in her heart, but it did not need to ignite immediately.
Sometimes, she recalled the early-summer riverbank, remembering Chen Tao silently beside her. Those memories were like light—soft, gentle, never blinding. She breathed softly. Life flowed like a river, gradually returning to her own path. Light and shadow filtered through the window, falling onto her notebook, onto her shoulders—calm and warm, a quiet reminder that everything moved to her own rhythm.