Chapter 2

The third call went unanswered too.

Beside him, Shen Qinghe pressed a hand to her stomach, her face growing a little paler. He looked at her.

“Your stomach's hurting again?”

“I'm fine.” She shook her head, her smile strained. “Go and sort things out with your wife first. I can manage on my own.”

He looked at her pale lips and remembered what she'd told him yesterday: her stomach had hurt so badly she hadn't slept all night.

He put away his phone.

“I'll take you to the hospital first.”

“There's no need. Really.”

“Don't try to tough it out.”

Then he sent me another message. “We'll talk when I get home tonight.”

I didn't reply.

He began to feel irritated. Su Wen hadn't been like this before. She would cry, question him, wait for him. Even when truly angry, she'd always left him a way back.

The most she'd ever done was lock herself in the bedroom for a night. The next morning, she'd still come out and make porridge for him.

He knew her so well that it had never occurred to him she might actually leave.

At seven, he went home. The dining table was covered with my favorite dishes. His mother sat at its head, looking displeased.

“Where is she?”

He loosened his tie. “She'll come back.”

His mother sneered. “Threatening divorce over every little thing. Su Wen gets more disgraceful by the day.”

He said nothing.

Eight o'clock.

Nine.

Ten.

The food had gone cold. I still hadn't returned.

At last, even his mother could no longer sit still.

“Call her.”

He did. On the seventh attempt, a cold automated voice answered.

“The number you have dialed is currently switched off.”

For a moment, something inside him went hollow. Like a light that had burned every day suddenly going out without warning.

But he quickly pushed the unease down.

She'd only switched off her phone. She'd turn it on tomorrow. She'd come home with red eyes and ask, “Gu Huai, why are you always like this?”

Then a few soothing words and another bouquet of white roses would make it all pass.

It always had.

3

The next day, he discovered that it hadn't passed at all.

Half the wardrobe was empty. Nothing had been pulled out in a fit of anger. All my clothes were gone; even the hangers had been neatly arranged by color. The emptiness was so orderly it was unsettling.

Only his toothbrush remained by the bathroom sink. My design books were gone from the study, leaving faint traces of dust on the shelves.

I'd even taken my slippers.

Standing in the bedroom doorway, he felt for the first time that the apartment was too large. So large that even his breathing seemed cold and lonely.

The housekeeper stood beside him, looking flustered.

“Mr. Gu, your wife came back yesterday. She took her things and left the keys.”

He turned. On the entryway cabinet lay the keys to our marital home, a supplementary card, and a list.

Not a letter. A record of the ties I'd severed: building-management payments, utilities, the parking space, insurance beneficiaries, household accounts.

Every item had been dealt with, clearly and precisely. No accusations. Not a word more than necessary.

As though I wasn't leaving a marriage, but closing an account I'd used for three years.

He picked up the paper, his fingers slowly tightening around it.

Back in the bedroom, our wedding scrapbook still sat by the head of the bed. I'd chosen its cream-colored cover.

I'd always liked keeping things: travel tickets, cinema stubs, restaurant receipts. I'd tucked them all inside. He'd always thought it unnecessary.

That day, he sat on the edge of the bed and opened it.

The first page held a photo taken just after we'd registered our marriage. I wore a white shirt, my hair neatly tied back, smiling so broadly my eyes crinkled.

Beside it, I'd written, “From today on, we're a family.”

The handwriting was round, a little childish. His throat tightened.

He turned the pages. Wedding photos. Our new home. The first time we'd gone to the supermarket to buy pots. The curtains we'd chosen together.

Farther on, there were fewer photos.

On one page was a yellowing hospital bill.

September 17, three years earlier.

Emergency treatment. Follow-up after uterine curettage.

He stared at the date, his fingers going rigid.

He remembered that day. Shen Qinghe had drunk too much at a party and called to say she was frightened, alone away from home.

I'd called him too.

Once. Twice. Three times.

He hadn't answered.

Only on the seventh call had he picked up and heard my trembling voice.

“Gu Huai, could you come to the hospital?”