Chapter 35: Next Morning After Breaking
Morning arrived slowly, as though even sunlight understood the weight of what the night had uncovered.
The curtains in Lin Xu's apartment were half open, letting pale dawn spill softly across the living room floor.
Lu Zhen had not truly slept.
Though exhaustion had finally dragged him into unconsciousness sometime before sunrise, his body still carried the tremor of remembered grief.
He woke on the sofa beneath a blanket, eyes swollen and heavy, his mother's letter still resting on the coffee table beside the cassette recorder.
For several long seconds, he did not move.
Memory returned gently this time.
Not like violence.
Not like panic.
But like ache.
The truth no longer hid in fragments now.
It existed whole inside him.
And somehow, that completeness hurt differently.
Quieter.
Deeper.
—
In the kitchen, Lin Xu was making porridge.
The faint scent of rice and ginger warmed the apartment air.
When he heard movement behind him, he turned.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke immediately.
Then Lin Xu crossed the room and placed one hand lightly against Lu Zhen's cheek.
His touch was warm.
Steady.
"How are you feeling?"
Lu Zhen opened his mouth to answer—
but found there was no simple word for this kind of grief.
So instead he said:
"…Tired."
Lin Xu nodded as though he understood the entire meaning hidden inside that one word.
Because he did.
—
Breakfast passed in near silence.
Not uncomfortable silence.
Not avoidance.
Just the quiet of two people who understood that some pain needed space rather than conversation.
Lu Zhen ate only a few bites.
His appetite felt distant.
As though his body had not yet fully returned to itself.
Afterward, he stood by the bedroom window holding his tea with both hands, staring at the pale gray city beyond the glass.
Lin Xu joined him after washing dishes.
For a while they simply stood there together.
Then Lu Zhen said softly:
"I keep hearing her voice."
Lin Xu did not ask whose.
He only said:
"What does she say?"
Lu Zhen's fingers tightened around the cup.
"She was calling my name."
The sentence trembled as it left him.
Lin Xu set his own tea down and turned fully toward him.
Without words, he opened his arms.
And Lu Zhen stepped into them immediately.
No hesitation.
No resistance.
Only grief finding shelter.
He rested his forehead against Lin Xu's shoulder and closed his eyes.
For the first time since remembering everything—
he let himself mourn without fighting it.
—
By afternoon, Dr. Mei sent a message advising rest, hydration, and emotional gentleness.
No therapy session today.
Only recovery.
So Lin Xu canceled his own work meetings without discussion.
He stayed home.
They spent the day quietly.
No forced conversation.
No emotional pressure.
At one point, Lu Zhen sat on the floor beside the old box of childhood belongings, carefully folding his mother's scarf in his lap.
His hands moved slowly over the worn knitted fabric.
Almost reverently.
Lin Xu watched from nearby but said nothing.
Then, after a long silence, Lu Zhen whispered:
"I hate that she died alone."
The words broke something tender in the room.
Lin Xu came to sit beside him immediately.
"She didn't die unloved."
Lu Zhen's breath hitched.
Lin Xu continued gently:
"She died protecting someone she loved more than herself."
Tears filled Lu Zhen's eyes again.
But these tears were softer now.
Not violent grief.
Only mourning shaped by love.
—
That evening, rain began falling against the windows in soft steady rhythm.
Lu Zhen sat curled into the sofa corner beneath a blanket while Lin Xu read quietly beside him.
At some point, Lu Zhen spoke into the dim room:
"When I was locked in that closet…
I thought she would come back for me."
Lin Xu lowered his book slowly.
Lu Zhen's gaze remained fixed ahead.
"I kept believing if I stayed quiet enough…
if I waited long enough…
she'd open the door."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Lin Xu reached over and took his hand.
Held it firmly.
"She would have," he said softly,
"If she could have."
That truth hurt.
But it also healed.
Because it separated helplessness from abandonment.
And Lu Zhen needed that distinction.
Needed it deeply.
—
Later that night, as they prepared for sleep, Lu Zhen stopped beside the bedside table where the letter and cassette recorder rested.
He touched both gently.
Then turned toward Lin Xu and asked in a quiet trembling voice:
"Will this always hurt this much?"
Lin Xu stepped closer.
Rested his forehead lightly against Lu Zhen's.
And answered with complete honesty:
"No.
But some part of it will always matter."
Lu Zhen closed his eyes.
And strangely—
that answer comforted him.
Because pain that mattered was not meaningless pain.
Pain that mattered had been love.
And love, even when it ended in grief,
was still worth carrying.
That night, Lu Zhen slept beside Lin Xu in exhausted silence.
No nightmares came.
Only deep, heavy sleep.
And though sorrow still lived inside him,
the panic was gone.
For the first time since the memory returned,
his grief had begun to change shape.
No longer buried trauma.
No longer locked terror.
Now—
it had become mourning.
And mourning, unlike fear,
could finally begin to heal.