Act One: A Pause on the Steps
The revolving doors of the courthouse closed slowly behind her, sighing with a heavy, lingering sound.
Jiang Mian didn’t leave immediately.
She stood on the highest step, watching her shadow stretch long in the dusk. The autumn evening carried the scent of dried phoenix leaves, and from a distant street corner came the sweet smell of roasted chestnuts—a warmth that belonged to the human world.
She stood there for a long time.
Long enough for the sunset to fade from orange to pale purple, long enough for the lamps outside the courthouse to flicker on one by one, long enough for the ring on her finger to grow warm from her body heat.
Then she began to descend the steps.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
The click of her heels against the granite echoed across the empty plaza like a slow metronome, measuring the distance from past to present.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She stopped and pulled it out.
A message from Pei Yuyan:
“The soup’s almost ready. Wait for it at home.”
Attached was a photo—steam rose gently from a clay pot on the stove, golden droplets of oil clinging to the lid’s edge. In the corner, his slender fingers rested lightly on the counter, nails neat and clean.
Jiang Mian stared at the image for a long moment.
Then she lifted her head and inhaled deeply. The air carried dust, exhaust, and the faint scent of decaying leaves, along with the distant aroma of someone cooking.
She suddenly remembered the day she first came to this world.
It felt so strange, so uncertain, and no one waited to welcome her home with soup.
Her phone vibrated again—this time from Rong Xubai:
“Observer-00’s final evaluation has passed. All procedures completed.”
“Also: Shen Yanxin is being transferred next week. She said she’s sorry.”
Jiang Mian typed back:
“Tell her for me—”
“Live well.”
“That’s the best apology.”
She sent the message, pocketed her phone, and kept walking. Her shadow stretched behind her, like an ink streak gradually fading into the night.
Act Two: Outside the Taxi Window
Inside the taxi, an old song played on the radio.
The driver was a white-haired elder, tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel to the rhythm. Seeing Jiang Mian enter, he turned the volume down:
“Where to, miss?”
“Yunqi Court Estate.”
“Alrighty.”
The car merged into traffic. The evening streets flowed like a slow river, red tail lights forming a warm stream.
The elder glanced at her through the rearview mirror: “Just came from the courthouse?”
“Mm.”
“Won or lost?”
Jiang Mian looked at the passing neon lights and said softly, “…I don’t know.”
The old man smiled: “That’s a curious answer. Court cases always have winners and losers.”
“Some things feel like a win,” Jiang Mian said, “but feel like a loss.”
A few seconds of silence. Only the old song continued, the female voice low, telling a distant story.
“I understand,” the elder said suddenly. “When my wife passed, I felt the same. Won against the disease, lost her.”
He kept his eyes on the road; the streetlights flickered across his face.
“She was sick for three years. I cared for her for three years. On the last day, the doctor said she could be saved, and I sat by the ward door… and couldn’t feel happy at all.” He turned a corner. “Because I knew… she’d still suffer.”
The car passed over a bridge. The river beneath glimmered darkly in the twilight, like flowing inkstone.
“When she finally left, I felt… relieved,” the elder continued. “So tell me, was that a win or a loss?”
Jiang Mian said nothing, watching the world outside.
“See,” the elder’s voice carried the clarity of age, “some things aren’t so simple as winning or losing. When it’s over, it’s over. Moving forward—that’s what matters.”
Jiang Mian turned her head.
His eyes stayed on the road, the streetlights casting shifting shadows on his face.
“And then?” she asked.
“Then,” he said, turning another corner, “I started driving this taxi. Each day, different passengers, different stories. Some happy, some sad, some rushing to see someone, some just leaving somewhere.”
“Listening to them, I realized—”
“A lifetime is just being on the road. Some know where they’re going, some don’t.”
The car stopped at a red light.
Across the street, a bakery’s warm yellow lights spilled out of the window, fresh bread lined the display, and a little girl stood on tiptoe pressing her face against the glass. Her mother leaned down, whispering, then led her inside.
A scene so ordinary.
But it blurred Jiang Mian’s vision.
“We’re here,” the elder said, pulling her back to the present.
She paid and stepped out. The taxi merged back into the traffic, tail lights fading into the distance.
She lifted her gaze to a lit window.
Building Seven, Room 302.
The warm yellow glow, against the deepening night, looked like a smooth amber.
Act Three: The Light in the Kitchen
The key turned in the lock quietly.
Yet the door opened from the inside.
Pei Yuyan stood there in deep gray loungewear, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Behind him, the kitchen light spilled warmly, carrying the fragrant aroma of mushroom soup.
“You’re home,” he said.
Three ordinary words, as if she had returned home a thousand times before.
Jiang Mian nodded and stepped inside. The slippers in the hallway were neatly arranged; she swapped her shoes, hung her bag—still dusted with courthouse gray—and thought to clean it tomorrow.
Pei Yuyan closed the door behind her. He didn’t ask about the trial, didn’t mention Shen Huaishan. He only said:
“Wash up and eat. The soup’s just right.”
She went to the bathroom. Warm water flowed over her fingers; her reflection looked pale, but her eyes were bright. She studied herself for a moment, then cupped water and splashed her face.
When she looked up again, color had returned to her cheeks.
Returning to the dining room, the table was already set.
The stir-fried vegetables were arranged on a white porcelain plate, each leaf a vibrant, unfurled green. The braised spare ribs rested in a shallow bowl, the sauce thick and glistening. The scrambled eggs with tomatoes were gold and red, steam curling up in soft wisps. In the center sat the mushroom soup, goji berries floating and sinking like tiny red boats.
Pei Yuyan served her the soup.
His movements were slow and deliberate. The ladle tilted at just the right angle—no drop spilled. Handing her the bowl, he murmured, “Careful, it’s hot.”
Jiang Mian took it, cradling it in her hands.
The warmth of the bowl seeped through her palms, all the way to her heart.
She lowered her head and sipped. The soup was fresh, the mushrooms tender, carrying the crisp aroma of the mountains. The temperature was perfect—not scalding, yet comforting.
Then she began to eat.
A bite of vegetables, a spoonful of eggs, a piece of rib. Slowly, carefully, as if tasting and as if confirming.
Confirming that this was real.
Confirming it wasn’t a dream.
Confirming she could really sit here, and peacefully enjoy a meal.
Pei Yuyan ate as well. He didn’t eat much, occasionally offering her food—seeing her bowl empty, he’d give her a rib; seeing the vegetables cooling, he’d remind her to eat.
They spoke almost no words.
The only sounds were the soft clink of bowls and chopsticks, distant traffic, and the low hum of the kitchen water heater.
This silence wasn’t awkward—it was something deeper. The knowledge that the other was there, so words were not needed to fill the space.
It was the exhausted peace that comes after surviving a storm, the calm after the dust has settled.
Halfway through the meal, Jiang Mian set down her chopsticks.
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Hm?”
“The system… it’s leaving.”
His chopsticks paused, then continued: “When?”
“Tonight.”
He nodded, asking nothing further, simply saying, “After dinner, we’ll go to the balcony.”
“Okay.”
Act Four: Farewell on the Balcony
Halfway through washing the dishes, Jiang Mian stepped into the kitchen.
She stood beside him, watching as he rinsed. Water gushed over the plates, washing away grease, foam sparkling faintly in the light.
“I’ll rinse,” she said.
He handed her the washed dishes. She opened another tap, letting warm water flow over the porcelain, making a crisp, clean sound. They worked together seamlessly—one washing, one rinsing, one drying, one putting away.
As if they had done this for years.
After the last dish was done, Pei Yuyan dried his hands and brewed a pot of tea.
Osmanthus oolong. The leaves unfurled slowly in the hot water, the sweet scent of osmanthus mingling with the deep richness of the oolong, filling the room.
They carried their tea to the balcony.
The autumn night air was crisp; Pei Yuyan went back to fetch a blanket and draped it over Jiang Mian’s shoulders.
“Cold?” he asked.
She shook her head. The blanket was soft, carrying the warmth of sunlight.
They sat in the rattan chairs. The balcony was small—just enough for two chairs and a small table—but the view was wide: the river in the distance, the bridge with its lights, the mountains blurred beyond.
The night sky was deep blue, like washed silk. There were few stars, but each one shone brightly.
Jiang Mian held her cup, gazing at the stars.
Then she closed her eyes.
In her mind, the system interface was fading. Points, achievements, golden comments—all disappearing like the tide, slowly becoming transparent.
[The final golden comments scroll through.]
[Today also wants milk tea]: “Is it ending… I don’t want it to…”
[Late-night champion here]: “Make sure the streamer is happy!”
[Clear skies]: “Feels like walking through the longest night with a friend.”
[Get lost, scumbag]: “Boss Pei, treat her well~”
The comments scrolled, each carrying warmth.
Then the system’s voice came, softer than ever:
“Jiang Mian, thank you. You’ve shown me what love can be.”
“All gifts are in their place: the ‘Eternal Pocket Watch’ on the nightstand, the ‘Memory Crystal’ on your wrist, the ‘Health Blessing’ is active.”
“Observer-00 asks me to tell you: Pei Yuyan’s permission in his palms is a blessing, not surveillance. Every time you smile, another star is added in the High-Dimensional World’s archive.”
“When the stars form a galaxy—”
“Love truly becomes eternal.”
The voice slowly faded.
The interface disappeared completely.
Like a grand final bow—quiet, yet solemn.
Jiang Mian opened her eyes.
Tears fell silently.
Pei Yuyan didn’t ask. He simply reached out, wiped her tears, and held her hand in his.
His hand was warm. The faint golden line in his palm glimmered gently in the night.
“It’s gone,” he said.
Not a question, a statement.
Jiang Mian nodded: “It’s gone.”
“Will you be sad?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but also… relieved.”
Some companionship is only meant for a stretch of road. The important thing isn’t how long you walk together, but whether, in that time, you make each other better.
Pei Yuyan squeezed her hand.
“It’s gone,” he said, “but I’m still here.”
“From now on, if you want to see the comments, I’ll read them to you.”
“If you want system prompts, I’ll tell you what they say.” keeping the emotional intimacy and quiet solemnity intact:
“I’ll exchange my whole life… for whatever you want.”
Jiang Mian’s tears welled up again.
But this time, she was smiling.
Smiling through tears, like the first thaw of spring snow.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. The night wind brushed past, carrying the damp scent of the river in the distance, faintly mixed with the horn of a passing ship.
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Hm?”
“What if… one day, I forget you?”
The question was light, like a feather falling on water.
Pei Yuyan was silent for a long while.
Long enough that Jiang Mian thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he said:
“Then I’ll get to know you all over again.”
“Every day, I’ll say to you: ‘Hello, my name is Pei Yuyan.’”
“Until you remember.”
“And if I never remember?”
“Then I’ll keep saying it.” His voice was soft, yet it sounded carved in stone. “Until the day I die.”
Jiang Mian’s tears fell onto their entwined hands.
But she didn’t wipe them away.
Because these tears weren’t sorrow.
They were the warm spring water of a heart frozen for too long, finally thawing.
Act Five: A Promise in the Morning Light
They stayed on the balcony until late.
Watching the stars drift, the moon move from east to west, the horizon slowly brightening with dawn.
When the morning light pierced the clouds, Pei Yuyan suddenly said:
“Jiang Mian.”
“Hm?”
“The weather’s nice today.”
Jiang Mian looked up. Indeed, the morning light was a gentle orange-pink, the clouds edged with gold. From afar came the sounds of the early bus, and the faint radio of elders exercising below.
“Want to go to the civil affairs bureau?” he asked.
Jiang Mian paused. “Now?”
“Yes,” Pei Yuyan said, looking at her, “if you want.”
She looked into his eyes. Those deep gray eyes reflected the morning light, her reflection, and a calm, resolute tenderness.
“Okay,” she said.
They went back inside to change.
Jiang Mian chose a simple white shirt; Pei Yuyan did the same. Standing in front of the mirror, they looked at each other—not dressed up, no exaggerated smiles—just two people deciding to spend the rest of their lives together.
Before leaving, Pei Yuyan took a small box from the drawer.
Deep blue velvet, worn at the edges.
“I was going to wait until after the ceremony,” he said, “but I think now is the right time.”
Jiang Mian opened it.
Inside was a pair of rings. Simple platinum bands. On the inside, they were engraved—hers with “予硯,” his with “江眠.”
The engraving was deep, as if etched into the very marrow of the metal.
“When did you prepare these?” Jiang Mian asked softly.
“Long ago,” Pei Yuyan said. “From the day I decided to stay.”
He took out the woman’s ring, held Jiang Mian’s left hand, but didn’t put it on—just placed it in her palm.
“We’ll put it on properly later,” he said. “I want to do it officially in front of the staff.”
Jiang Mian nodded, holding the ring tightly.
The metal was cool, but soon warmed to her touch.
Act Six: The Human Prologue
At the civil affairs bureau, a few couples were already lined up.
The girls wore white dresses, holding flowers, their cheeks tinged with nervous joy. The boys stood straight, occasionally adjusting their suit jackets.
Jiang Mian and Pei Yuyan stood at the end of the line.
No flowers, no elaborate attire—just holding hands, quietly waiting.
A girl in front turned and looked at them, smiling: “Are you getting your certificate today too?”
“Yes,” Jiang Mian nodded.
“Congratulations!” the girl’s eyes sparkled. “My boyfriend and I dated for seven years; today we finally made it official. How about you?”
Jiang Mian glanced at Pei Yuyan.
The morning light fell on his profile, gentle like a classical painting.
Then she said, “We… went through a lot.”
The girl laughed: “All the more reason to celebrate. Wishing you both happiness.”
“You too,” Jiang Mian said.
The line moved forward slowly.
When it was their turn, the staff member was a gentle middle-aged woman. She took the forms, carefully checked them, and looked up at them.
“Do you have photos?”
Pei Yuyan handed over the photo—taken yesterday by Rong Xubai. In it, they sat side by side on the balcony’s rattan chairs, with the morning light and city skyline behind them. No forced smiles—just calm, gentle gazes into the camera.
“Beautiful,” the staff member smiled. “It’s rare to see such natural wedding photos.”
She stamped the form and pointed to the room beside them: “Go over there to take the oath.”
The oath room was small, with the national emblem on the wall. Sunlight slanted through the window, casting diamond-shaped patterns on the floor.
They stood facing each other.
“Please raise your right hand.”
They did so in unison.
“I voluntarily take this person as my spouse…”
The staff member spoke a line, and they repeated it.
Pei Yuyan’s voice was steady, as if stating a truth long certain. Jiang Mian’s voice trembled slightly, but each word was clear.
“…In prosperity and adversity, in wealth and poverty, in health and sickness, we shall weather storms together, share joys and hardships, and become lifelong partners.”
“Declarant: Jiang Mian.”
“Declarant: Pei Yuyan.”
When the words fell, the room was very quiet.
Outside, birds chirped on the plane trees. Clear, bright sounds—belonging to the morning.
The staff member handed them two red booklets with solemnity:
“Congratulations. From now on, you are legally married.”
Jiang Mian took the marriage certificate.
The red cover felt warm and dignified. She opened it, saw the photo, saw the official seal, saw the two names side by side.
Jiang Mian. Pei Yuyan.
From this moment, these two names would appear on the same household registration.
From now on, they were family.
Stepping out of the oath room, under the corridor’s sunlight, Pei Yuyan paused.
He took the ring from his pocket, lifted Jiang Mian’s left hand, and gently slid it onto her ring finger.
Perfect fit.
The metal was cool at first, but quickly warmed in her hand.
Jiang Mian then took the other ring and put it on Pei Yuyan’s finger. His fingers were long, with defined knuckles, and the ring seemed to belong there naturally.
They looked at the rings on each other’s hands.
For a long time.
Then Pei Yuyan said: “Home.”
Jiang Mian nodded: “Yes. Home.”
Hand in hand, they walked out of the civil affairs bureau.
The sun outside was just right. The autumn sky was high and vividly blue. The street bustled—woks sizzling at breakfast stalls, schoolchildren running with backpacks, elderly women carrying baskets and discussing prices.
Ordinary human life.
Yet the grandest romance.
Epilogue: A Long Life Together
That evening, they went to the balcony again.
The sunset painted the sky in warm orange; clouds were like burning cotton. On the river, a ship’s horn sounded long and low, startling a flock of white egrets.
Pei Yuyan made fresh tea.
Jiang Mian leaned back in the rattan chair, watching the sunset. The ring on her finger gleamed gently in the evening light.
“Pei Yuyan,” she said softly.
“Hm?”
“In my original world, my name was Jiang Huaying.”
Pei Yuyan turned to look at her.
“I was a profiler,” Jiang Mian continued. “I analyzed countless crime scenes, profiled countless faces. But I never imagined that one day, I would sit here with someone who gave up eternity for me, watching the sunset.”
She paused.
“I also never thought I’d love ordinary life so much—love the smell of mushroom soup, the stars from the balcony, the youtiao fried at five in the morning.”
Pei Yuyan smiled.
He squeezed her hand:
“Then from now on, we have plenty of time.”
“To taste more flavors, to see more stars, to wait for countless more five o’clocks.”
Jiang Mian nodded.
The wind carried the scent of distant cooking—someone frying chili, sharp and pungent; someone simmering meat, rich and fragrant.
Children laughed below, crisp, carefree.
Then she heard Pei Yuyan say:
“Jiang Mian.”
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
Three light words, falling into the dusk like a feather.
Jiang Mian turned to look at him.
The sunset glowed on his face, his deep gray eyes filled with gentle light.
She looked at him for a long time.
Then she smiled.
Leaning forward, she kissed the corner of his mouth softly:
“I love you too.”
“I’ve loved you for a very long time,” he said.
Pei Yuyan’s eyes shone, like stars filling the entire evening sky.
He pulled her into his arms, his chin resting on her head, arms wrapped around her shoulders.
They stayed there, watching the sun slowly sink into the river, stars gradually light up, the moon climb high, and the night gently cover the world.
Watching the countless lights in every home turn on.
And they knew—
Days like this, there would be many, many more.
So many they couldn’t count.
So many they could call— the rest of their lives.
[The End]
Afterword
The story may end, but love doesn’t.
Thank you to everyone who accompanied Jiang Mian and Pei Yuyan on this journey.
May you also find your own warm home in the fireworks of everyday life.
The morning light will come, and love will endure.
See you in the extras.