When Cheng Shuo woke up, he found himself in a hotel.

Yesterday, Zhang Yijie had dragged him out of his rented apartment and gotten him a standard twin room.

Now, he turned his head and saw Zhang Yijie sitting on the other bed, asking him, "Feeling any better? Do you want to see a therapist?"

He paused for a few seconds before saying, "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," the other man retorted. "Eat your food. I told you a long time ago that Xing Ji isn't interested in you. And you don't even like him that much. Stop this nonsense. Now—"

He couldn't bring himself to say the name of the deceased, so he just said, "Don't overthink it. Bro, I'll help you find a counselor. Go get some help."

Cheng Shuo didn't answer and drank the congee.

Halfway through, he threw it all up.

He vomited by the toilet, bringing up bile.

Zhang Yijie watched him for a long time before finally saying, "We're going to the hospital. Right now."

Without looking up, Cheng Shuo said, "I need to find Cen Zeng's mother."

Zhang Yijie didn't say anything. He drove Cheng Shuo back to the police station. He found the officer from yesterday and asked for her contact information.

The officer gave it to him, offered a few words of comfort like "my condolences," and seemed to mistake him for Cen Zeng's unacknowledged lover. He didn't know what to say. Then he made the call.

On the fifth try, the person on the other end finally picked up. "Who is this?"

"Hello, Auntie," he replied, his throat feeling dry. "I was the one from yesterday... Can I see you? I found a diary and thought maybe..."

Before he could finish, the other person had already hung up.

He subconsciously called back.

This time, she answered. "There's no need. I don't want it. You can throw it away."

Why?

His mind was a complete blank, as if nothing was turning inside.

How could this be?

"Please, Auntie," he said, feeling as if his lips and teeth were no longer under his control. "Auntie, can you please let me see you?"

She hung up again.

He called again.

And again.

She would always answer, only to hang up after he'd said a few words.

He didn't know what part of his halting words had moved this woman, who was as calm as a piece of cold iron, or perhaps she had simply lost patience with his persistence.

She said, "Six in the evening. I'll text you the address in a bit."

He waited dully until dusk. The spring breeze was too nice, so nice that it made him feel a little cold. And a little bitter.

Standing at the entrance of a dilapidated urban village complex, Zhang Yijie's brand-new sports car was parked to the side, looking like some absurd movie set.

The woman appeared. She had changed her clothes and was wearing a navy blue shirt. She was tall and slender, and only now did he get a clear look at her eyes and brows, which were somewhat familiar.

"You wanted to see me. What did you want to say?" she asked.

Still so calm and unmoved it frightened him.

He inexplicably recalled a line from the diary: "Spring is good. Actually, spring is also not that good."

"I..." Standing in front of her, he suddenly couldn't get a single word out.

He couldn't express his apology, couldn't bring himself to talk about that person.

"He..." he finally said. "I'm sorry, Auntie."

"You have nothing to be sorry to me for," she replied.

"He... he..."

"He's dead." She actually continued his sentence smoothly, calmly. "Dead is dead."

"No matter what you ask me, will it be any use?"

Cheng Shuo was speechless.

He was completely choked up, the root of his tongue feeling numb.

"Or did you try to save him and fail?" she said. "Then you have nothing to be sorry to him for, either. He brought it on himself."

How could this be? Why was it like this?

Cheng Shuo's mouth was filling with the taste of blood.

What do you mean, he brought it on himself?

"I..." He finally found his voice again. "I... I can help. The funeral, the burial plot... or maybe..."

"There's no need," she refused, pausing for a moment before quickly reverting to her indifference. "If you want to hold one, do it yourself. You don't need to inform me."

Having said her piece, she turned and disappeared into the fading evening glow without another word.

Cheng Shuo's knees went weak and his vision blackened. Just before he collapsed to the ground, Zhang Yijie caught him.

His childhood friend of over twenty years didn't say a word, just pulled him into his car. In the end, he couldn't hold back a sigh. "How could he have it so rough?"

No one spoke. Zhang Yijie drove back to his own apartment. As he helped the other man out of the car, he heard Cheng Shuo ask, "Should I hold a funeral?"

"Do you know any of his classmates, friends, or anyone like that?" Zhang Yijie asked.

Cheng Shuo's head slowly lowered again.

He didn't. His knowledge of Cen Zeng came from his physical shell. He vaguely knew he was a top student at the School of Medicine, didn't talk much, and was a very measured person.

The rest all came from his diary.

A vague, fragmented, and inexplicable diary.

In a daze, he had a strange thought: perhaps he was now the person in the world who knew Cen Zeng best.

He felt like this spring was going to strangle him.

Zhang Yijie was worried about him and repeatedly said that he would be right next door, that he wouldn't go out tonight, and that Cheng Shuo should just call him if he needed anything.

Cheng Shuo nodded. After a while, he noticed the other man had left him a glass of water.

It was warm, tepid, not cold at all.

He took two sips.

Then his vision blurred, and he finally lost consciousness.