#expecting me to move when i'm holding a handrail for support when they are not

[thornheartfelt]

'Tis one of those days where my onychophagia got to me and started a domino effect of feeling insecure about myself. Would like In.tegra to hold my hand and tell me I'm good enough.

[aishangotome]

Main Story Chapter 15-20 (NIGHT ENDING): A Murder (一次謀殺) | Light  and Night 光與夜之戀

Please consider reading Chapter 15-17 before you proceed

That night, Jesse woke up briefly as I called out to him, and went back to sleep just long enough to tell me not to worry about him.

I couldn't help worrying, so I called a car and brought a dazed and drowsy Jesse to the hospital.

The doctor said that all his vital signs were stable; he only had some minor skin injuries that could be treated with topical medication. I breathed a sigh of relief and placed him on an empty hospital bed, preparing to fetch the medicine.

With the prescription in hand, I walked to the staircase and was about to go down when I suddenly felt dizzy.

Perhaps today has been too much, physically and mentally. I closed my eyes, seeking a moment of respite.

In the past, I always thought my life was at least somewhat fulfilling, but now I realize that it was not complete.

Those lost memories and hidden powers were like hollows eaten away by insects, clinging to clothes left unworn for a long time. Only when I picked them up again did I realize the difference.

What will the future hold? I dare not ponder distant matters; I focus only on what's close and achievable.

I'm going to the pharmacy to pick up medication, then I'll come back and see if I can find an empty bed to sleep in later if nothing else happens.

I was mentally planning the steps I needed to take. But at that moment, a powerful force suddenly struck me from behind, propelling me forward!

As I stumbled, a cry caught in my chest. Instinctively, I reached for the handrail, but it eluded my grasp. In that moment of imbalance, I glimpsed a piece of fabric disappearing around the corner.

The fabric, a pale blue and impeccably tailored, was familiar to me. No matter how many years had passed, there was still one uniform made from that material.

Time slowed down in an instant, no matter how many years had passed-- how many years, exactly? Why did my memory flicker with such familiar scenes?

The fabric, along with the weightlessness of this moment made no difference.

At that moment, there was someone who caught me---

??: ....

My shoulder collided with a chest, and a pair of hands supported my back. The palms were warm and soft, and the familiar scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.

At that time, it was like that too.

I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes. But instead of the pain I had expected, there was a soft thump.

My forehead should have collided forcefully with something, but an inexplicable force dissipated the impact. All I felt was the softness of a palm against my skin.

I was as confused then as I am now, and the moment I opened my eyes, I was met with a pair of golden eyes.

The person's appearance in front of me had become blurry in my eyes, and their figure was not very clear. Only the eyes remained, those eyes, as if countless stars had fallen within them.

I stared in disbelief until he placed his palm over my ankle and I felt the pain as an afterthought.

It was an unfamiliar pair of hands, well-boned and unusually white, like a piece of glossy jade, but the feeling on the skin was slightly rough.

The ankles became warm, not just on the skin, but a heat that seeped into the bones, sharp pains turning into soreness, just like what you would feel during a growth spurt.

In the corner of my vision, I faintly saw the person in front of me, their long eyelashes drooping. Whether due to pain or embarrassment, I suddenly felt the urge to move, but I was gently restrained.

??: Don't move.

His voice was also clear, light and crisp.

You: It hurts...

??: Just endure the pain. Do you walk without looking at the ground?

The person approached a little closer, and my unsteady body found support on their shoulder. There was a faint fragrance about him, almost imperceptible.

Now I know that it was the smell of sandalwood.

You: Sariel.

The eyes, voice, and scent was enough for me to put together a person in mind, and I whispered his name.

As the words left my mouth, I realized that my voice was unusually hoarse, sounding more like an inarticulate sigh than a call.

Even so, I still received a response close at hand.

Sariel: What's wrong? Does it hurt?

His face was close to mine, but his eyes weren't turned towards me--- instead, he was looking at my wrists, my legs, and my ankles.

Unlike what I just saw, his appearance was very clear, including his profile, eyes, nose, and lips.

Each of them was something I was very familiar with.

Why did you happen to be at the hospital? Was the fragmented memory I saw real or not? Did you already save me once at that time?

When I came back to my senses, I had a million questions that I wanted to ask him. But he was furrowing his brows so tightly that I reflexively raised my hands to smooth them out.

The moment I touched him, my vision blurred, and a wave of unknown emotions flooded my chest.

You: I didn't---

I didn't want to look into his emotions. But before I could even finish the thought, everything around me had changed.

The rain was drizzling onto my raincoat, and I was holding a small yellow umbrella in my hand.

I was running.

I ran forward, running through the alley, through the flowerbed, stepped over a few puddles, and splashed my feet in the mud.

Whose memory is this, and why do I feel so familiar with it? This body is both comfortable and strange, and what was everything I'm thinking and experiencing right now?

I needed to run to the heart of the garden quickly because I just saw my "model" sitting there in the rain.

I met him by chance in the park, and I was just sitting on the bench across from him to secretly draw him.

The teacher in my painting class said that I could draw as a hobby, but that I would need a little more talent if I wanted to pursue a professional career, especially as a designer.

I didn't want to accept it, so I drew more and more.

My model is in a great shape-- broad, straight shoulders, long limbs. What's even more remarkable is that he doesn't fidget much.

Leaves fell onto his head and slid down his shoulders, but he didn't seem to notice it.

A stray cat jumped up to him and rubbed against his wrist, trying to get his attention, but the man did not reach out to stroke the cat.

His face was still white as a marble statue under the already overcast sky.

But even with a great model, a brand new sketchbook and charcoal pencils--- I shook my head, determined to discard the crumpled sheet of paper that I had left in the park trash can.

The rain blocked my view, and it was only when I got closer that I recognized the figure on the bench.

He didn't have a raincoat or an umbrella, so I quickly handed him the umbrella in my hand.

But he never took the umbrella.

His hair was dripping water, drop by drop, onto the crumpled paper in his hand, and that's when I recognized him.

You as a child: I drew that...

He seemed to realize that there was someone else around him, and he raised his head, the raindrops reflecting in his eyes.

??: You drew this?

You as a child: Well, I'm learning to draw, and I started drawing you without telling you, I'm sor---

??: It's mediocre.

The guilt I felt just now and the feeling of wanting to do a favor in return by giving him an umbrella had all completely disappeared.

I couldn't tell if it was anger or sadness, but more than that, I understood that what he said was absolutely right.

Whether it was the teacher with the gentle smile or the stranger with the unpleasant words, they weren't wrong. I squeezed the umbrella in my hand.

You as a child: It wasn't good to begin with, so I threw it in the trash can. Why did you pick it up?

??: I didn't pick it up. He did.

His gaze strayed to the side, and the black cat hiding under the bench stretched and purred.

I've fed that black cat frequently, yet it remained distant. I did not expect it to bond so quickly with the aloof person in front of me.

??: Take the umbrella back. I don't need it.

You as a child: Why not? Are you a petty person?

You as a child: Plus, if you get wet then you'll get sick, and being sick feels terrible.

The person in front of me seemed to want to smile, their eyebrows curving slightly downward, yet there was no trace of a smile on their face.

He gently pushed my umbrella and the the hand that was holding it away.

??: You worry too much. Go home or your family will be very worried about you.

You as a child: What about your family? They will also be worried about you.

I stubbornly refused to listen to him and stretched out my hand.

??: I don't have family.

After that, he fell silent. I realized that I had said the wrong thing. Other people had fathers and I didn't. I had a mother and a grandmother, but other people didn't necessarily have them.

You as a child: Don't be sad, I actually don't have too many family members!

You as a child: I've never met my dad, and---

He listened to my stammering defense, folded up the paper in his hand, and handed it to me.

You as a child: Why don't you throw it away?

??: This is yours.

He had emphasized the word "yours" a little hard.

I took the drawing and looked at it for a long time. It wasn't a very good drawing, but it was something I had drawn.

Moreover, the tone of this person's voice made it sound as if the things that were "mine" were very precious.

I couldn't help but smooth out the wrinkles and watermarks on the surface, hoping to erase them completely, only to forget that I was the one who caused them.

The man before me raised their eyes, observing my actions without a hint of curiosity. Yet, I felt as though I had wounded my own pride, and my face flushed a crimson red.

You as a child: I just felt that maybe it could still be saved.

He extended his hand, moved away the finger that was blocking a part of the drawing, and looked at it for a moment.

??: Indeed, it is not hopeless.

You as a child: Eh?

I didn't expect him to respond, but he did.

In fact, he casually pointed to a certain line in the shirt pattern. Could it be a salvageable spot? I was a bit puzzled.

You as a child: But didn't you say it's mediocre?

??: Mediocre means there is room for improvement. It's not a contradiction.

There was a slight flutter of excitement in my heart. Although it was not exactly praise, he must have had a good reason for saying it.

You as a child: Can you also draw?

You as a child: Then can you tell me how I can make it better?

This time, the person in front of me didn't give a direct answer.

??: Do you really like to draw?

You as a child: Mhm. When I grow up, I want to be a fashion designer. A designer must be able to draw.

??: Fashion designer.

He repeated those words, his tone seeming both familiar and unfamiliar with them at the same time.

??: Becoming a fashion designer is not an easy task.

You as a child: I know. My teacher also said that I don't have the talent for it, but I really want to do it.

He responded with a nod and rotated his wrist. I recognized this gesture; it was a habit my art teacher had before they began to draw.

At the same time, I noticed the cuff of his white shirt, adorned with a delicate embroidered flower in gold.

You as a child: Are you also a fashion designer?

You as a child: You seem to understand fashion and you can also draw.

??: Not anymore.

You as a child: Then you were before?!

I didn't expect to have guessed correctly!

I couldn't help but scrutinize the person once more. Although this was my dream, I hadn't actually encountered many designers.

You as a child: My grandma is one too. Were you a really good designer before?

You as a child: Why did you stop? Is that why you're sitting here looking sad?

You as a child: Do designers have to be really good at drawing? If I'm not good at it, does it mean I can't become one?

He pursed his thin lips and finally sighed.

??: Why do you have so many questions?

His tone was light, but not impatient.

I just really want to become a designer...

The rain intensified, drumming heavily against the brim of my raincoat. The weight of the water trickled down the sides, prompting me to remove my hat for relief.

The person in front of me did not seem to be afraid of rain.

Normally, even a light shower would leave my eyes stinging and my hair a tangled mess. But he remained impeccably groomed, his demeanor composed.

Yet, I instinctively opened my umbrella, extending its protective canopy over both of us. Regardless of whether he feared it or not, getting drenched was never a pleasant experience, and I couldn't bear the thought of him succumbing to the downpour.

??: I've said it before, I don't need it.

You as a child: I'm afraid... afraid the paper will get wet. I'm not holding the umbrella for you.

My words were a lie, spoken with a lack of conviction. I subconsciously twirled the umbrella handle, a gesture that betrayed my true feelings. This was my favorite umbrella, transparent, and enough to provide complete coverage.

Yet, in that moment, I felt that it was too small. Or perhaps, he was too big. Beneath the umbrella, there was space for me but not him.

After all, he was a grown man, a successful designer at that. As I awkwardly tried to adjust my position, I inadvertently exposed myself to the rain.

The person across from me reached out, gently adjusting my umbrella and brushing my damp, stray hairs behind my ear. The damp feeling instantly vanished, replaced by a comforting warmth and dryness.

The person gazed at me, their eyes unlike any I had ever encountered. They were of an unusual golden hue, their pupils encircled by a deep, inky line that seemed to hold within it a universe of mysterious I couldn't yet comprehend.

After a moment, as if recalling something, a genuine smile graced his lips, softening even his unusually expressionless face.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but I couldn't hear him.

As he uttered these words, my consciousness began to fade, as if slipping into a dream or returning to a recent moment in the past.

The bus rumbled slowly along the road, passing through clumps of rubble. The setting sun shone through the window, illuminating the person sitting in front of me.

Silvery-white clothes, silvery-white hair, and a back that stands as straight as a ramrod.

The soles of my feet were burning in pain. I walked too much today and almost lost my way in the suburbs. They say there are wolves here at night, which is very dangerous.

Thinking of this, I spoke slowly.

You as a child: Well, thank you for telling me how to get home.

When I was at my wit's end, this person showed me the way. He told me which bus to take to get back downtown.

After showing me the way, he didn't leave. He stood at the bus stop with me and then got on the bus with me.

Now there were only two of us on the bus. Outside, there was nothing but wasteland as far as the eyes could see. Seeds and fireflies were flitting through the air. We were sitting in window seats, one in front of the other.

In the reflection of the glass, I could see his profile, devoid of any expression.

??: Don't run away from home again.

I nodded forcefully. He might have seen my movement in the reflection, and his gaze shifted for a moment before returning to the distance.

The bus passed one stop after another. I counted the stops on the route map and realized that my house was one of the last few.

It's still going to take awhile.

The person in front of me also didn't get off the bus. For some reason, I felt a sense of peace looking at his back, and I couldn't help but hope in my heart that he would get off at a later stop too.

The sky outside gradually darkened. I was feeling very tired, leaning against the back of my chair, my eyelids feeling like they couldn't support my gaze any longer. Suddenly, a sound rang out.

??: Child, which stop is your house at?

You as a child: I think it's this one. The second to last stop.

??: Mm.

He acknowledged with a sound and turned his head. After a moment, another very soft voice was heard.

??: Sleep if you want.

I blinked my eyes, and the drowsiness suddenly disappeared. Could it be that he asked me my stop so that he could remind me to get off when we reached it?

You as a child: Big brother, which stop do you need to get off at?

??: The same station as you.

After he finished speaking, he crossed his arms, seeming to indicate that he was no longer interested in answering my questions.

I put my hand into my pocket and felt around. The money I put in there this morning were still there, not lost.

Now that I think about it, this is a 100 yuan bill. I didn't even have enough money to put in the coin slot, so it was this big brother in the silver suit who paid my fare.

If he gets off at the same stop as me---

You as a child: Let me treat you to a crepe when we get off the bus! There's a really good one near my place.

What did he reply? It seemed like he said, "I don't want to eat." But I didn't hear it clearly, and a wave of drowsiness washed over me.

I somehow knew the rest of the story.

I told him that there's a grandma near my house who sells crepes, and even people who don't like crepes will love hers.

And she always sold them for very cheap. You can get two of the 'family special' with mixed flavors for just 50 yuan.

In the end, he must have listened to me and let me fulfill my wish of treating him. But he ate very little, having a crepe with no sauce or meat, just lettuce and eggs.

Lettuce and eggs... a sudden wave of uncertainty washed over me as we stood side by side in front of the crepe stall, taking a bite of the hot, steaming crepes together.

It seems like this has happened many times before.

Opening my eyes again, I found myself lying face down on a table. The surrounding scenery was so familiar that I didn't even need to identify it. A gentle pang of emotion tugged at my heart.

There was a wooden table in the small yard of my home. Next to the wooden table was a large plum tree. The leaves of the tree were falling all over the ground and onto me.

Every year, my grandmother would brew plum wine. The aroma was so fragrant, and we would always enjoy it under this tree.

But both my grandmother and mother said I had to be older to drink it, and they would always hide the bottles in places I couldn't find.

Now, no one will stop me from looking for it, and no one will stop me from drinking it. I moved all the jars out.

The funeral had already been held. My grandmother didn't like crowds, so there was only me at the funeral. There was no funeral banquet after the funeral either. I'm the only one here now, pouring a glass of wine for each my grandmother and mother.

They took a sip and were going to leave. I have to drink the rest.

After drinking a few glasses, my eyes were burning and both the present and future looked blurry.

Suddenly, I widened my eyes and saw a shadow appear in front of me. Silver clothes, silver hair.

Young version of you: Who are you?

??: I'm nobody.

The stranger's movements paused for a moment.

??: I heard that an old tailor from here recently passed away. Are you related to her?

Young version of you: You're talking about my grandmother. Do you know her?

??: I don't.

??: I have a friend who was taken care of by her, and they asked me to bring some things over.

The number of wine glasses on the table increased to four. The thing he brought was a small ceramic cup. I picked it up and held it close to my eyes to examine it. The cup's surface was adorned with vigorous plum branches.

Gazing at it, I was minded of the plume tree, of my grandmother, and then of my mother, until my nose turned sour and I couldn't bear it anymore.

But there is still someone in front of me. If my grandmother were here, I could cry freely. She would handle everything. But my grandmother is gone, so I have to handle everything.

I poured some wine into the fourth glass as well, my hands shaking so much that I spilled it everywhere. A hand reached out and took the bottle, steady and firm, in stark contrast to mine.

??: This is good wine. Drink it slowly, you can enjoy it for many years.

??: My condolences.

He turned and looked again at the open door behind him.

??: Remember to close the door in the future, otherwise thieves may run in.

I stared blankly at him, watching him pick up the small cup I had filled with wine and drink it down in one gulp.

Then, he looked at the mess of wine and water on the table, frowned slightly, picked up the cloth next to the table naturally, wiped down the wine, and then went to the faucet in the yard to wash the cloth.

Having finished all that, he turned around silently and walked towards the door. His back was thin and his shadow stretched long, lingering on the wooden table until he turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Awakening from my daydream, I suddenly wanted to ask him who he was and chased after him, but there was no one in sight on the path by the door.

Walking back slowly, I saw the same empty courtyard before me, except for an extra wine glass on the table and a little less clear wine in the bottle.

The aroma of the wine slowly climbed along the plum tree, and I rushed over to cover the bottle tightly, preventing the fragrance from dissipating.

In a daze, I found myself agreeing with the stranger's words that there were many more years to come.

My head hurt badly, and I didn't know if it was a hangover from drinking too much or something else.

I heard someone calling my name, their voice mingling with the sounds of the rain, the clinking of porcelain cups, and the honking of cars, echoing endlessly in my ears.

I wanted to see more. How many gaps were there in the memories of my life, eaten away by time?

But I could not ignore the voice. He was calling my name, and in the memories I had long lost, he had never called me like this.

How strange. Out of all our encounters, have I never asked for his name, and he never asked for mine?

I had a strong feeling it happened, perhaps in the very beginning, when he reluctantly mentioned it, and I took his hand and wrote the word "Y/N" in his palm.

What did... he say? What were those letters of his name? We had forgotten over and over again, and we had not been able to recognize each other by name over and over again.

Fortunately, for now, we don't need names. I remembered many other things already.

I opened my eyes. He was standing in front of me, dressed in silver, with silver hair, a tall figure, a straight spine. golden eyes, and a faint scent of sandalwood.

You: Sariel.

Sariel: Mhm.

He acknowledged me with a sound, walked over to my side, and adjusted the bedside table. I struggled to prop myself up, and the air was filled with the smell of disinfectant. We were still in the hospital.

You: Just now, I...

Sariel: You tumbled down the stairs and almost rolled from the second floor to the first.

You: Yes, I fell down the stairs.

You: It was you who saved me.

The expression on my face must have been quite strange, for a rare hint of confusion appeared on Sariel's face.

He sat on the edge of my bed and raised his hand as if to take the temperature of my forehead.

Sariel: I was just passing by. Who knew I'd run into a clumsy bird that would trip down the stairs.

Sariel: Not only can it not fly, but it also regressed.

I took his lingering hand and put it over my own eyes.

You: Thank you, Sariel, for saving me.

Sariel: I told you, I was just passing---

Without waiting for him to finish, I continued speaking.

You: Thank you for saving me so many times.

The hospital room was silent. I could hear Sariel's breathing, soft and shallow. His hand, as always, was warm, as if it wanted to absorb all the tears that were streaming down my face.

I had no words to say. I just cried and cried, my sobs growing louder and louder. The wind, the rain, the setting sun, the plum tree shedding its leaves in the rustling breeze, the aroma of fried crepes, the grass seeds and fireflies dancing outside the car window.

Sariel is Sariel, and Sariel was all of them. The moment I forgot Sariel, they all leave me too.

Sariel, what are you... when did you know...

He hasn't changed, and he never will. How will he, who remains unchanged, look at me who has changed so much?

I could not be filled by these obscure memories, a gaping hole seeming to be in my heart. Until my past, the wind, the rain, and the leaves bent down to touch my forehead.

His eyes were filled with stars, the same stars as before, and he brought the only remaining thing to me.

Outside the morgue, a young police officer sat at the monitoring desk. As dawn approached, he struggled to stay awake and eventually drifted off to sleep.

As a result, he didn’t see the black figure that flashed across the screen; the next moment, that screen turned blurry.

A young man dressed in all black wandered over to the huge freezer and, without hesitation, pulled open one of the “drawers.”

The young man surveyed the exposed remains. He was not the first to do so in the last few days, but what he was looking for seemed to be different from those who had come before him.

The most conspicuous wound on the corpse caught his eye, but the other various suspicious marks didn’t seem to grab his attention.

Only when his gaze wandered to the corpse’s palm did those pale green eyes come to a halt.

The young man extended his hand, gently parting the stiff, lifeless fingers of Sun Taizhong’s right hand. Without surprise, he discovered several faint marks in the palm, as if they had been compressed by something irregular.

However, whatever it was, Osborn was well aware that it hadn’t appeared amongst the evidence in the case.

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Read the LIGHT ending here.

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