Jiang Cheng’s autumn was always foggy and rainy, overcast. Thick mist had risen over the river, shrouding the whole city in a dim gray haze.
Today was March 10. Fang Zhu checked his watch. As usual, Xu Boheng would go to Qing Tian Cemetery around eight on the 10th or 11th.
At eight o’clock, Xu Boheng indeed pushed his work back and had him drive to the flower shop first.
Buying the flowers had originally been left to him, but the chrysanthemums he picked were rejected by Xu Boheng, and the flowers he suggested for worship were all passed over as well.
This Xu CEO, who had risen to a position of authority at such a young age, was always unpredictable, his actions even more impossible to read. Back then Fang Zhu had only just started working for him, and could not make out his thoughts, so he could only wait quietly for his instructions.
Xu Boheng frowned in silence for a long while, then finally said, “Forget it. I’ll go myself.” He had Fang Zhu drive him to the flower shop, where he chose a single white rose.
After that, whenever those two days came around, Xu Boheng would always go to the flower shop first to pick out a rose he was satisfied with, then drive to the cemetery.
It had never changed in all these years.
The drive took about forty minutes. Qing Tian Cemetery lay against the mountain, with a wide view, but the temperature was relatively low. Xu Boheng casually wrapped his scarf around his neck and got out of the car.
The cemetery was very clean, regularly tended by people, and the gravestone they visited was spotless too.
Fang Zhu stood dutifully to the side as he watched Xu Boheng bend down and place the rose before the gravestone, his gaze fixed on the photo on it.
The young man in the photo had a striking face, like a rose growing out of a coarse snowfield. Even in death, he still carried a lonely, poignant beauty.
The first time Fang Zhu saw the photo, he already understood why Xu Boheng thought the other flowers did not suit him.
As for the person in this grave, Fang Zhu knew very little. He only knew that he seemed to be from the Ming family, but did not keep much contact with his relatives. He and Xu Boheng were supposedly childhood friends, but it seemed they had only been on fairly familiar terms.
In truth, after all these years, Fang Zhu still could not tell what Xu Boheng really felt for this person. Every time he came here, he would simply stand there without saying a word.
Fang Zhu really felt some regret. This person had died when he was only in his late twenties, still so young. Who knew why he had failed to think things through?
After about ten minutes, Xu Boheng told Fang Zhu to go get the car. There were still several meetings to attend later, and they had to be back at the company before ten. Xu Boheng never delayed work-related matters.
Fang Zhu said okay, turned to get the car, and after taking two steps, could not help glancing back.
Xu Boheng was still standing where he was, looking at the photo. Jiang Cheng in March had already reached that stretch of weather where it turned cold and warm without warning, and the wind was strong. He wore a gray overcoat, his hair and the hem of his coat whipped by the wind, his eyes lowered, his expression impossible to read.
Yet somehow, it made one feel sad.