Extra Chapter 2 – Badges and Reunion
Part One: Time on the Rocking Chair
Pei Yuyan learned to use a smartphone on Jiang Mian’s seventy-eighth birthday.
It was a gift from their son—the latest model. The screen was large, and the font could be adjusted to be very big.
“Dad, whenever you miss us, just video call,” their son said over the phone, his voice slightly distorted through the speaker.
Jiang Mian sat in the rocking chair, a thin blanket over her legs. The spring sunlight was gentle, streaming through the balcony glass, turning her silver hair a soft golden hue.
“Did you hear that?” she said, smiling. “Our son is teaching you.”
Pei Yuyan replied with a quiet “Mm” and carefully swiped on the screen. He learned quickly—after all, a three-hundred-year-old observer could pick up anything fast. But he deliberately slowed down a little, because Jiang Mian liked watching him fumble.
Sure enough, Jiang Mian smiled.
It was a soft smile, fine lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes, like flowers blooming in the light of time.
“Clumsy,” she said, her voice full of tenderness.
Pei Yuyan smiled too. He put down the phone, walked over, and crouched beside her.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” he asked.
Jiang Mian thought for a moment. “Porridge. The white porridge you make.”
“Just plain porridge?”
“Mm. With the pickled radish you make.”
A simple request. But Pei Yuyan nodded like he had been assigned a mission of utmost importance.
He went to the kitchen, rinsed the rice, added water, and lit the stove. Then he returned to the balcony and sat beside her rocking chair.
Two rocking chairs, side by side. One dark brown, one light brown. Both bought by their son, who said they were good for elderly backs.
They sat side by side, watching the sunset.
The sunset was beautiful—golden-red, like melted sugar, slowly sinking behind the tall buildings. The sky was painted in layers—orange-red, pink-purple, deep blue.
No one spoke.
Sometimes, Jiang Mian would reach out her hand. Pei Yuyan would take it, fingers interlacing.
Palm against palm, warmth exchanged with warmth.
For many years, this had been their routine.
Jiang Mian’s memory began to fade, like an old photograph overexposed to light.
Sometimes she would suddenly ask, “Pei Yuyan, did we go to the supermarket today?”
They had, in fact—she had bought milk and eggs.
Pei Yuyan didn’t correct her with “We did.” Instead, he said, “Do you want to go? I’ll go with you.”
Sometimes she would look at their wedding photo for a long while, then softly say, “This girl is so pretty. Do you know her?”
In the photo, she was twenty-five, in a white wedding dress, smiling with eyes curved into crescents.
Pei Yuyan said, “I know her. She’s my wife.”
“Your wife, huh…” Jiang Mian nodded and stared at it for a while longer. “You have to treat her well.”
“Mm,” Pei Yuyan said. “I will.”
The doctor said it was early-stage Alzheimer’s. It would gradually worsen.
Their son sent the latest medication from abroad, and Pei Yuyan administered it on time. But he knew some things medicine couldn’t hold onto.
Like time, like memory.
Yet some things, time could never take away.
Like every morning, when Jiang Mian woke up, she would smile at him first. Even if she didn’t remember who he was, she smiled.
Like how she always remembered to grow jasmine on the windowsill. Even if she forgot to water them, she remembered to care for them.
Like their habit of holding hands. Whenever he reached out, she clasped his hand. It was instinctive.
Those things, buried deep in the soul, illness could never steal.
That last complete autumn, Jiang Mian’s condition suddenly improved a lot.
Her memory was clearer, and she spoke more. During evening walks, she would point at the ginkgo trees and say, “The leaves have turned yellow.”
Pei Yuyan said, “Yes, yellow.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Yes, beautiful.”
She walked slowly, leaning on a cane. Pei Yuyan supported her, matching her steps.
From the community gate to the third ginkgo tree—fifty meters—they took ten minutes.
Then she said, “I’m tired. Let’s go back.”
He helped her back home.
That night, she slept early. But in the middle of the night, she woke and nudged him.
“Pei Yuyan.”
“Mm?”
“I dreamed about when we were young,” she said, her voice clear in the darkness. “You were helping me escape through a tunnel. Your hands were transparent, and I was crying so hard.”
Pei Yuyan turned to look at her in the moonlight.
“And then?” he asked.
“Then you disappeared,” Jiang Mian said. “I searched and searched, but couldn’t find you anywhere.”
She reached out and touched his face. Her fingers were light, like touching a fragile dream.
“If you get lost again next time,” she said, “remember to come find me.”
Pei Yuyan held her hand, pressing it to his lips.
“Always,” he said.
That final morning, the jasmine bloomed exceptionally well.
When Pei Yuyan woke, Jiang Mian was already awake, leaning against the headboard, looking out at the windowsill.
“They’ve bloomed,” she said.
Pei Yuyan looked. Indeed, the jasmine she had nurtured for thirty years had opened seven or eight small white flowers overnight, tucked among the green leaves.
“So fragrant,” Jiang Mian said.
The scent didn’t actually reach them from that distance, but Pei Yuyan said, “Yes. Fragrant.”
He got up, intending to pick one for her.
“Don’t,” Jiang Mian said. “Let them bloom. They’re beautiful as they are.”
He sat back down at the bedside.
The morning light slowly grew brighter, squeezing through the gaps in the curtains and drawing golden lines across the floor.
Jiang Mian looked at the jasmine for a long time, then turned her gaze to him.
She looked at him for a long, long moment.
Then she smiled.
It was a calm, contented smile, as if she had completed something important.
“Pei Yuyan,” she called softly.
“Mm?”
“In this lifetime… thank you.”
Pei Yuyan’s throat tightened. He shook his head, wanting to say, “The one who should say thank you is me,” but no sound came out.
Jiang Mian reached out her hand. He immediately took it.
Held it tightly.
“In the next life,” she said softly, “come find me sooner.”
“All right.”
“Don’t make me wait too long.”
“I won’t. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Jiang Mian smiled again, her eyes curved like they had when she was young.
Then she closed her eyes and whispered, “I’m tired… I’ll sleep a little more.”
The hand he held slowly relaxed.
The breathing became shallow.
And finally, stopped.
Like a leaf twirling gently in the wind, then quietly landing on the ground.
Pei Yuyan sat there, unmoving.
Just holding that hand, now growing cool, and looking at the jasmine on the windowsill.
He looked for a very, very long time.
Until the morning sunlight filled the room. Until the faint jasmine fragrance drifted over, subtle, like a farewell, and like a promise.
Then he leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
So light, as if afraid of waking her.
“Good night,” he said. “Until next time.”
Part Two: Seventh Day at the Police Station
Jiang Huaying rushed into the Criminal Investigation Division’s meeting room. The morning briefing had already begun.
“Sorry!” she whispered, slipping into an empty seat in the back row.
The captain shot her a glance but didn’t comment and continued speaking: “…That concludes last week’s case summary. Today we have an important announcement.”
Jiang Huaying opened her notebook, pretending to take notes.
In reality, her mind was elsewhere.
She had dreamed the same dream again last night: the rocking chair, white hair, hands held together. And the scent of jasmine—faint, but lingering.
When she woke, her pillow was damp in a small patch.
She didn’t know the people in the dream, yet her chest felt heavy, as if she had lost something precious.
“Jiang Huaying!”
“Yes!” she snapped upright.
All eyes in the room were on her. The captain’s face darkened. “Pay attention! The new commanding officer will be taking over as head of the Major Crimes Unit. You are responsible for assisting with the handover.”
“Yes, sir!”
Following the captain’s gaze toward the door, Jiang Huaying froze.
Time seemed to stop.
Air, sound, breathing—all of it paused.
Only the person walking through the doorway existed.
Dark blue police uniform, three stars on the shoulder epaulets. His posture was straight, like a tree that had weathered countless storms but remained upright. His hair was black. His face… sharp, angular…
Very handsome.
Not youthful handsome, but the kind of handsomeness that comes with years, like an old movie leading man.
But what made her freeze wasn’t any of that.
It was his eyes.
Deep gray eyes.
The same as in her dreams.
The same as the ones she saw in the mirror every day.
He walked to the podium, his gaze sweeping across the room. Calm. Steady. As if surveying a familiar landscape.
And when that gaze landed on her—
It paused.
For a long moment.
The conference room was so quiet she could hear the hum of the air conditioning.
Jiang Huaying knew she should look away—basic courtesy. But she couldn’t.
Those deep gray eyes seemed to have a magic all their own, holding her in place.
Then she saw—
The corners of his mouth lift slightly.
A faint, yet real smile.
Like he had finally seen something he had been waiting for.
Like… he had found it.
“Hello, everyone,” he spoke. His voice wasn’t loud, but each word was clear. “I am Pei Yuyan.”
Pei Yuyan.
Those three words were like a key, unlocking a door in her heart that had been sealed for a long time.
Her heart skipped violently, then began to race uncontrollably, like it might leap from her chest.
Instinctively, she pressed a hand to her chest.
Pei Yuyan’s gaze stayed on her face. Deep. Gentle. Like he was looking at a treasure long thought lost.
The captain began to introduce the work assignments, but Jiang Huaying didn’t hear a word.
All her attention was drawn, completely, to those eyes.
Until the meeting ended.
Colleagues gradually left, and the room emptied.
“Jiang Huaying,” the captain approached. “Officer Pei is new. You’re responsible for showing him around and assisting with the handover today.”
“Yes, sir.”
She stood and walked toward the podium.
Each step felt like walking on cotton—light, unreal.
Pei Yuyan was organizing papers on the podium. Hearing the footsteps, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
The air fell silent again.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, glinting off the stars on his uniform.
Jiang Huaying stopped in front of him and saluted. “Reporting, I am Jiang Huaying.”
Her voice trembled slightly, but she held herself steady.
Pei Yuyan returned the salute, then extended his hand. “Hello, Jiang Huaying.”
His hand—long fingers, palms with a thin layer of calluses.
Jiang Huaying grasped it.
In that instant—
A warm sensation shot from her palm straight to her heart.
Not a physical warmth, but something deeper. Like memory. Like a promise. Like… a touch long awaited.
She froze.
Pei Yuyan held her hand firmly, not letting go immediately.
His thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand.
A tiny motion.
But tears came to Jiang Huaying’s eyes, unbidden.
No reason. Just… an overwhelming surge of emotion.
Like walking a long road and finally arriving home.
Like searching for someone for a long time, and finally seeing them.
“You…” she began, her voice catching.
Pei Yuyan looked at her. In his deep gray eyes, a gentle light flowed.
A light she knew well.
One she had seen countless times in dreams.
“I think…” Jiang Huaying tried to hold back her tears, “I think I’ve… seen you somewhere before.”
Pei Yuyan smiled.
That smile deepened, fine lines forming at the corners of his eyes.
Like a flower blossoming in time.
“Perhaps I have seen you before,” he said, voice low, like sharing a secret. “In a place with jasmine flowers.”
Jasmine.
Jiang Huaying’s breath caught.
On the windowsill at her desk, there was a pot of jasmine. One tiny white bloom had opened just that morning.
She had never told anyone she liked jasmine.
She had just felt… that she should grow one.
“How did you—” she murmured.
Pei Yuyan released her hand, but his gaze stayed on her face.
“I guessed,” he said. “You look like someone who would like jasmine.”
A breeze blew in from outside, carrying the cool of early autumn.
But Jiang Huaying felt a warmth stir somewhere deep in her heart.
Like ice that had been frozen for a long time, finally beginning to melt.
“Shall we go?” Pei Yuyan picked up his folder. “Show me your desk.”
“Okay.”
She turned and led the way.
At the doorway, she couldn’t help but glance back.
Pei Yuyan followed, a single step behind, watching her. His gaze was gentle, as if he had been looking at her like this for many years.
“You…” she suddenly said.
“Hmm?”
“Do you… believe in past lives?”
The moment she asked, she regretted it. The question was unprofessional, odd.
But Pei Yuyan was not surprised.
He thought for a moment, then nodded. “I do.”
“Why?”
“Because some encounters,” he said, looking into her eyes, “feel like reunions.”
Jiang Huaying’s heart skipped again.
This time it wasn’t pain—it was fullness.
Full, warm, as if something tender had filled her up.
She turned back and continued walking.
But the corner of her mouth lifted unconsciously.
The hallway was long. Sunlight streamed through the window at the end, stretching their shadows ahead of them.
One in front, one behind.
Like a walk under the sunset years ago.
Like a reunion under the morning light years later.
When they reached the office door, Pei Yuyan suddenly said, “Jiang Huaying.”
She turned.
“Do you have time at lunch?” he asked. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the recent cases.”
“I do.”
“Then… shall we eat together?”
“Okay.”
“I know a place,” Pei Yuyan said. “They serve very good congee. With their homemade pickled radish.”
Jiang Huaying smiled.
Her smile was bright, like sunlight piercing morning mist.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go there.”
Pushing the door open, her colleagues looked up.
Jiang Huaying walked to her desk. On the windowsill, her jasmine quietly bloomed in the sunlight.
Small. White. Fragrant.
Pei Yuyan stood beside her, looking at the pot of jasmine for a long while.
Then he reached out and lightly touched a petal.
So gently, as if afraid to crush it.
“They’ve bloomed beautifully,” he said.
“Yes,” Jiang Huaying nodded. “They just opened this morning.”
Sunlight fell over them. His dark blue uniform looked particularly sharp in the light.
Like two trees standing side by side, taking root again in a new spring.
And their story—in this ordinary morning, in this office filled with the scent of jasmine—
Was only just beginning.