Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Three years later, I held my first solo design exhibition.

I called it Reclamation.

My name. My body. My work. And the years I'd wasted—all returned to me.

At the back of the gallery was a group of installations. Bouquets of dried white roses stood in transparent acrylic cases. Beside each was a card.

“Get some rest.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Try to eat a little more.”

“Stop sulking. Come home for dinner tonight.”

A visitor asked, “Ms. Su, what does this piece mean? Is it about an old love?”

I smiled. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

“An archive.”

The visitor looked surprised, then nodded.

As the exhibition neared its end, my assistant came over and lowered her voice.

“Ms. Su, there's a Mr. Gu outside who'd like to see you.”

I was organizing my speech notes. The surname made me pause for only a second.

“Which Mr. Gu?”

She stared. I looked up at her. She quickly understood.

“I see.”

She went outside.

People moved constantly beyond the glass doors. Farther away stood a man in a dark suit, carrying white roses. He was much thinner than three years before, and much quieter.

He didn't approach. Didn't call my name. He watched me across the stream of people for a long time.

I turned back to the exhibition coordinator and continued confirming the schedule for the next stop on the touring exhibition.

Light fell through the gallery. In the acrylic cases, the white roses were dry and yellowed, like old possessions that should have been put away long ago.

A few minutes later, my assistant returned.

“He says he won't bother you again. Would you like to keep the flowers?”

I looked down at the papers in my hand.

“No.”

She nodded.

“And don't accept bouquets like that, sent to me personally, in future.”

“Yes, Ms. Su.”

That evening, I received an email from the International Design Association. They invited me to judge the next round of selections for young designers.

It began, “Dear Ms. Su Wen.”

No Mrs. Gu. No one's wife. Just my name.

I looked at it for a long time, smiled, and accepted.

It was dark outside the gallery. I changed out of my heels into flat shoes and left through the back door.

The breeze was gentle. A message from Lin Xi appeared on my phone.

“Celebration dinner's booked. Hot pot! Two broths—and don't eat too much of the spicy one.”

I laughed and replied, “Yes, Mom Lin.”

Ahead were lights, people, a city night full of warmth. I pulled my scarf a little higher.

This time, it wasn't because I was cold. As the breeze passed, I simply felt wonderfully at ease.

I walked on.

Without looking back.

The End

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