The rain gradually subsided, and a faint glimmer of light even appeared on the horizon. I picked up my bag to leave, and just as I reached the glass curtain at the door, my wrist was suddenly grabbed. Liam 's palm was warm, with calluses from years of holding a pen; the touch was so familiar that it made me feel physically nauseous.

"Where do you live? I'll take you there." His voice was urgent, a stark contrast to his calm demeanor just moments before.

I jerked my hand back as if I'd touched a scorching hot iron. I took two steps back to create distance, and the cuff of my trench coat slipped down, revealing crisscrossing scars on my forearm—scars I'd inflicted with shards of porcelain while I was in the mental hospital. The rain soaked my skin, making the scars appear a pale pink, particularly striking.

Liam 's gaze froze on the scars, his face paled, and his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but I spoke first. My tone was as calm as if I were stating something unrelated to myself: "No need, Mr. Liam , I'm afraid your wife will misunderstand."

I deliberately emphasized the words "your wife," watching his face turn from white to pale, then to pale, and finally to a look of utter disarray. I used to love seeing him lose his composure for me, but now, I just found it laughable.

As she turned and stepped into the gradually stopping rain, Liam 's voice came from behind her, broken and fragmented by the wind: " Clara , about what happened back then..."

I didn't look back, and I didn't stop walking. What does it matter what happened back then? Can he give me back the child I lost? Can he erase those days and nights I spent in the mental hospital? Can he make up for all the love I've exhausted?

No. So there's no point in saying more.

The brown sugar bun in my arms was soaked and mushy from the rain, sticking to the plastic bag. I walked to the trash can and tossed it in casually—like throwing away the rotten, stinking past that was connected to Liam .

The wind lifted my sleeve, and the cool breeze made the scars itch slightly. I looked down at them and suddenly remembered that today was not only the seventh anniversary of our divorce, but also the third year since I completely stopped taking medication. The doctor said I was recovering very well, and those delusions caused by my paranoia and despair had never recurred.

It turns out that letting go of someone can be so peaceful. It's not hysterical forgetting, nor is it lingering resentment. It's just that when you mention their name again, your heart doesn't even skip a beat. It's like talking about a complete stranger.

The rain had completely stopped, and sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting dappled shadows on the ground. I pulled down my sleeve to cover the scar and walked towards the steamed bun shop on the street corner. The aroma of steam wafting from the shop was warm and comforting.

Lila, who was wiping the table , saw me and immediately gave me a big smile, her ponytail swaying back and forth: " Clara , you've finally come! I was cleaning the warehouse just now and found a dusty box with your name on it. See if you still want it. If not, I'll throw it away to make room for the pasta machine."

It was a dark brown wooden box, its edges worn and covered in a thick layer of dust. I wiped it with my sleeve, revealing three large, elegant characters: "A Gift for Clara ".

Liam 's handwriting. Even after all these years, it remains as flamboyant as ever.

Lila leaned closer, her eyes wide with surprise. "Wow, this handwriting is so beautiful! Which handsome guy sent it to you? The packaging is so exquisite; it's clear he put a lot of thought into it." She reached out to check the signature on the side of the box, and after seeing the two words, she suddenly exclaimed "Wow!" her voice trembling. " Liam Foster ? Is that the legendary genius PhD who won the International Physics Prize at the age of thirty? The one who discovered a new asteroid and made headlines ?!"

She grabbed my arm, her face full of disbelief: " Clara , who are you? How do you know such a big shot?!"

I found a chair and sat down, my fingertips tracing the wood grain of the box as I slowly unfastened the clasp. Inside, there was a blue and white checkered cloth that I had embroidered myself years ago, on which lay a notebook and a long-faded silver bookmark.

“We don’t know each other,” I said, picking up the bookmark, the cool touch sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m his ex-wife.”

I paused, then added, "It's that ex-wife he sent to a mental hospital back then, who was called crazy by his family and regarded as a disgrace to his life."

Lila 's mouth gaped open in an "O" shape, unable to close for a long time. The steam from the steamed bun shop blurred her expression. After a while, she cautiously asked, " Clara , what...what exactly happened back then?"

I looked at the notebook in the box— Liam 's old lab notes, with "For my Clara " written on the title page. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on the handwriting.

I smiled, my fingertips gently tracing the familiar handwriting, and said, "When I met Liam , he wasn't some legendary genius yet. Back then, he was dirt poor, unable to even afford a hot meal..."

The words "problem child" were the most prominent label the neighbors used to attach to Liam . While his parents were fighting outside the Civil Affairs Bureau, their hair disheveled, he would squat in the corner, clutching half a hard, dry bun, his eyes as empty as a frozen lake. No one wanted to play with him. On his way home from school, mischievous boys would throw stones at him and call him an "unwanted bastard." He wouldn't dodge or talk back; he would just clutch the bun tighter until his knuckles turned white.

The winters in Harbin are so cold they can freeze your breath into frost, and that year was especially cold. When I came home from school, I saw him huddled in the stairwell of our apartment building, wearing only a faded long-sleeved shirt, his teeth chattering from the cold, and his lips cracked and bleeding. When he saw me, he instinctively shrank into the shadows, like a frightened little animal.

"Aren't you cold?" I handed him the hand warmer I'd just bought for me from my pocket; its pink casing still held my warmth. He hesitated for a moment, then carefully took it. The instant his fingertips touched the hand warmer, he flinched—his hands were freezing, like ice.

That day I brought him home. Jane's mom was stewing ribs in the kitchen. She didn't even frown at the smell of the stale ribs on him; instead, she found his dad's old cotton-padded jacket and dressed him in it, then ladled out a full bowl of hot soup: "Drink up, warm yourself up." His dad, while playing math games with him, discovered his talent—he solved that Olympiad math problem that even high school students struggled with, after staring at the scratch paper for ten minutes, using a completely new method.

From that day on, Liam 's life seemed to take off. When he won the National Mathematical Olympiad at the age of ten, he stood on the podium, holding the trophy and waving vigorously at me in the audience, his eyes shining brighter than a spotlight. When he was admitted to Tsinghua University without taking the entrance exam at the age of fourteen, he came to my house with a backpack to share the good news, picked me up and spun me around three times, and said loudly, " Clara , I'll protect you from now on." When he was sixteen, his published paper shocked the physics community, and invitations from major universities piled up, but he used his first prize money to buy me a white dress that I had been eyeing for a long time.

The parents who had tossed him around like a football back then suddenly reappeared, crying and shouting that they wanted to take him back. Standing in front of the Civil Affairs Bureau, facing the impeccably made-up but greedy-eyed couple, he said only one sentence: "When I was eight years old, I spent a freezing night in the stairwell, and neither of you came to see me. Now that I've made something of myself, don't you think it's too late to try and take me away?"

He turned and went back to my house. He knelt down in front of my father with a thud and kowtowed three times, his forehead turning red. "Dad, Mom, I know better than anyone who is good to me and who truly loves me. From now on, you are my real parents, and Clara is my real sister—no, the one I'm going to marry. I will definitely be filial to you and take good care of her. I will never leave her in this lifetime."

Back then, he truly ingrained the phrase "never leave" into his very being. When I was recommended for admission to Tsinghua University, he argued with the admissions office, saying, " Clara's grades are poor, but she is the most important person in my life. If you don't admit her, I will give up my recommendation." Later, when I stayed on to teach at the university, he pleaded with me to get me a relaxed family member position in the administration office. He would take a detour to pick me up every day on my way to and from work, and he always had a soft pad on the back of his bicycle so I wouldn't feel uncomfortable. I was always worried that I wasn't good enough for him, and I would secretly cry at night. He would hold me in his arms and say over and over again, " Clara , without you, I wouldn't be who I am today. No matter how high I fly, the string is always in your hands."

He has always been stubborn in his work. When doing scientific research, he can spend three days and three nights in the lab, and he will not give up on a theory he has identified with, even if the whole world questions it. When he was pursuing me, he waited for me downstairs every day, rain or shine, until I nodded and agreed. But I never thought that this stubbornness would eventually be used to change his mind and cheat on me.

"Cheating?" Lila dropped the rag in her hand onto the table with a "thud," her eyes wide as saucers. " Clara , you two grew up together! He broke ties with his own parents for you, saying he would take care of you for the rest of his life. How could he cheat on you? Who is that other woman? Is she one of those rich second-generation girls who drives luxury cars and is exceptionally beautiful? Or one of those scheming women in TV dramas who pretend to be weak?"

I picked up the glass of cold water on the table and took a sip; a bitter taste rose on my tongue. Neither. Liam 's affair was with a girl named Vanessa who worked at a flower shop on the street corner. She was dark-skinned and thin, with a low ponytail, wearing a faded work dress. Standing in the crowd, she was as ordinary as a speck of dust.

That year, Liam was thirty years old and had already become a legend in the physics world, winning awards left and right, surrounded by various socialites and ladies. But suddenly he lost interest in all of that and instead became obsessed with growing flowers. He transformed his small yard into a garden, bringing home imported tulips, rare blue star flowers, and common sunflowers—anything he found interesting.

His most treasured possession was that patch of irises. The seeds were a gift from me on my eighteenth birthday. I had joked at the time, "These flowers are like you; they look ordinary, but they bloom exceptionally beautifully." He cherished those seeds, personally turning the soil, sowing them, and watering them. Every day, the first thing he did after getting home from get off work was to go to the garden to see them.

“Look,” he once said, holding my hand and pointing to the newly blooming irises, his eyes filled with fascination, “such an inconspicuous seed, under the careful cultivation of people, can bloom into such a beautiful flower. The process is so wonderful, it’s like…like polishing a dusty bead to a shine.”

I didn't understand what he meant at the time. I just thought the flowers were pretty and said with a smile, "Then I'll water the flowers with you every day from now on." But he frowned and said, "You don't understand."

Looking back now, I realize he didn't find the flowers interesting; he found the process of "cultivation" interesting. As for me, I'm no longer the person who could inspire his "desire to cultivate"—I'm too familiar, too complacent, like an old tree in a garden that has already taken its shape, devoid of any surprises.

Vanessa appeared at this time. She was a delivery girl for the florist. The first time she came to deliver flowers, she squatted in the garden, pointed to the irises and said to Liam , " Mr. Liam , you've grown these flowers very well, but you could try using leaf mold. It's more breathable and can extend the flowering period by half a month. Also, irises like a semi-shaded environment, so it's best to provide some shade when the midday sun is too strong."

Liam was stunned. "I've been with him for so many years, and I've never cared what kind of soil his flowers like or how much sunlight they need. I only know he likes them, so I water and fertilize them for him, but I've never thought to understand them. But Vanessa is different. She can describe the habits of every flower, and she can talk to him about everything from photosynthesis to genetic mutations in plants, chatting until late at night without stopping."

At first, I didn't pay much attention, just thinking he'd made a new friend who knew about flowers. Until one day, I came home from work and saw Vanessa squatting in the garden, with Liam standing behind her, holding a handkerchief and gently wiping the sweat from her forehead. The setting sun bathed them in a warm yellow glow, the scene as harmonious as a painting—it was how we used to be.

“ Liam , who is she?” I gripped the shopping basket tightly, my knuckles aching from the pressure.

He turned around and saw me. The gentleness on his face vanished instantly, replaced by his usual calm: " Vanessa works at the florist. She's here to help me look at the flowers."

"Does she need to get this close to see the peanuts? Do you need to wipe her sweat?" I walked closer, my gaze fixed on Vanessa . She hurriedly stood up, awkwardly wringing her hands. "Ms. Jane, I'm sorry, I..."

"Shut up!" I interrupted her, turning to Liam . "Have you forgotten what you said back then? You said you'd never leave me, that I was the most important person to you!"

Liam frowned even more, his tone tinged with impatience: " Clara , can you please stop being so unreasonable? Vanessa and I are just friends. She knows about flowers and can help me a lot."

"A friend?" I laughed, laughing until tears almost came out. "Does a friend need you to text her every day to let her know she's safe? Does she need you to take her to the flower market on weekends, even forgetting my birthday? Does she need you to give her another set of the iris seeds I gave her?"

I took my phone out of my bag, and on the screen was a chat history with him that I had accidentally seen. Vanessa said, "It's a bit cold today," and he immediately replied, "I'll bring you a coat." Vanessa said, "I want to see the stars," and he said, "When I'm done with this busy period, I'll take you to the observatory." The most striking one was the sentence he said, " Vanessa , I only feel alive when I'm with you."

Liam 's expression shifted, but he showed no remorse. Instead, he sighed, " Clara , we've been together for too many years. You're too familiar with me, so familiar that I find you boring. Vanessa is different. She's like a blank canvas, showing me endless possibilities. She understands my pursuits and my ideals. But what about you? Besides the mundane details of daily life, what can you talk to me about?"

"I don't understand your ideals?" I suddenly remembered that when he first started graduate school, he didn't have money to buy experimental equipment, and I worked three jobs to raise the money for him; when he stayed up all night writing his thesis, I got up every morning to cook him a midnight snack; when his supervisor questioned him, I stayed up with him in the lab all night after night. He had forgotten all of this.

“You only understand my life, not my soul.” Liam ’s words were like an ice pick, piercing my heart. “ Clara , we are no longer from the same world.”

That day, I stood in the garden all night, looking at the blooming irises, and suddenly felt a deep irony. Years ago, I gave him the seeds to tell him that we were like these flowers; if we worked together, we could bloom in our most beautiful form. But I never imagined that in the end, he would use those flowers to nourish someone else's love.

Lila was filled with righteous indignation. She grabbed the rolling pin on the table, ready to slam it down: "That Liam is such a scoundrel! Clara , why didn't you slap him back then? This kind of ungrateful bastard deserves to be ruined!"

I gently shook my head and opened the notebook in the wooden box. The first page was written in Liam 's handwriting, still carrying the naivety of youth: " Clara gave me a hand warmer today, the first gift I've ever received in my life. I will study hard, earn lots of money in the future, buy her the best things, and protect her forever."

Behind the writing was a crooked little figure drawing a hand leading another even smaller figure, with the words " Clara and me" written next to it.

My fingertips traced the words, and my eyes slowly welled up with tears. Back then , Liam truly wanted to protect me forever. But later, he flew too high, too far, leaving all those promises behind in the wind.

"And then?" Lila leaned closer, her voice softening. "You just divorced him like that?"

I closed my notebook and looked out the window. The sun was shining brightly, steam rose from the steamed bun shop, and children's laughter drifted from afar. "No," I paused, my voice a little hoarse, "I was the one who initiated the divorce, but before that, I went through something far more painful than the divorce itself—I got pregnant with his child, and then I fell down the stairs while he was on a date with Vanessa ."