Chapter Seventy-Five: The Gray Avatar Will Never Pulse Again

Feeling irritated, he replied curtly, “Enough, stop saying all those pointless things. She chose this herself—who can she blame?” He Xuan Yi wanted to argue, but sensed that no matter what he said, it would be wrong. He glanced at Zhao Xuer beside him, signaling her it was time to say something. Zhao Xuer understood his look; with a faintly feigned remorse on her face, she took Zhao Yiya’s hand and said, “Whether as your aunt or your mother-in-law, I hope you can live in the He family. After all, He Zheyue has already married you, and you are his rightful wife. The wedding itself has already cost us much face. If you go back to your parents’ home now, it will tell everyone that He Zheyue deliberately humiliated us, and we will be unable to lift our heads in public.”

After considering her words, the Zhao family members perhaps found reason in Zhao Xuer’s argument and agreed that Zhao Yiya should stay with the He family.

In the grand hotel, He Zheyue instructed Han Mo to drive to Maple Leaf Residence. Opening the door, He Zheyue’s eyes were filled with memories of Mo Qinghan pacing back and forth in this room. His eyes grew moist at once. He walked out to the balcony where he and Mo Qinghan loved most, sat in the hanging chair, mimicking her gentle swaying. He cried and laughed, lingering there for a while before rising to stand by the guzheng. He plucked the strings a few times, unable to hold back his tears, which fell onto the instrument, producing a low, mournful sound. He lingered by the guzheng for a moment, then lay down in the wicker chair Mo Qinghan had once rested in, eyes closed, letting tears flow freely from their corners.

He did not know how long he lay there before sleep overtook him. He dreamed that Mo Qinghan had returned, bringing their child with her. Just as he was about to reach out to them, both vanished. He Zheyue jolted awake, rose from the chair, and stared at the night that had fallen outside, a wave of desolation washing over him. He let out a deep sigh, pulled out his phone, and opened QQ to look at the greyed out avatar that would never light up again. The ache in his chest was so sharp he could barely breathe. He whispered to himself, “Girl, maybe this is the last time I’ll come here. I will seal everything of yours in this place, and when the day comes that I go to find you, I’ll bring it all to you.”

He Zheyue went to the study and switched on the light. He reached to the topmost shelf and took down a delicate, square wooden box, brushing away a light dusting of powder from its surface. Inside was a thick stack of letters, all written by Mo Qinghan to Sanye years ago. Not one had ever been discarded; he had carefully kept them all in this box. He took out the wedding ring box from his pocket, drew out the men’s ring, and slipped it onto his own ring finger. The women’s ring and the ring box he placed together in the wooden box and locked it. Then he put the keys to the residence in as well, locked the box, returned it to its spot, and stared at it for a while in silence. Finally, he switched off the light, opened the door by the glow from outside, and quickly shut it behind him. If he closed it slowly, he feared he would regret it.

Just as Zhao Guangxiong and his wife entered the house, they saw Zhao Qingwu, suitcase in hand, heading out. Zhao Guangxiong immediately embraced his son, pounding his back heavily as he wept, “You rascal, you’re finally home.”

But Zhao Qingwu spoke coldly, “I’m not coming home; I’m leaving. I’ve been accepted to graduate school in France, all the paperwork is complete, and I’m leaving immediately.”

Zhao’s mother stood aside, crying, “Why are you in such a hurry? Your sister got married and left, now you’re leaving too, you…”

Zhao Guangxiong released his tight hold on Zhao Qingwu, wiped away his tears, and said, “As long as you’re well, you can go wherever you wish.”

“Tell my sister congratulations—‘she got what she wanted’.” With that, he walked away without a backward glance.

Zhao’s mother wanted to chase after him, but Zhao Guangxiong held her back, saying softly, “Perhaps after he’s been away for a couple of years and returns, the scar between us will fade on its own.”

Their forlorn silhouettes stretched across the staircase, appearing especially desolate.