Many people mourned Cen Zeng. Once a person dies, the world finally begins to love them without reservation. No one said he wasn't qualified to be a doctor anymore, no one said people with depression should stay obediently at home, and no one discussed his non-existent father and the mother who supposedly passed on hereditary mental illness to him.

Suddenly, everyone became sensible.

Online, people were calling Cen Zeng a martyr. Cheng Shuo saw this and let out three loud laughs, laughing so hard that Zhang Yijie paced back and forth, completely at a loss, anxiously picking at the little yellow duck on his phone case, saying, "Buddy, don't be like this, I'm really scared."

"I'm not going to die," Cheng Shuo said. "Don't be afraid."

Zhang Yijie seemed even more scared.

Ms. Zhong and Mr. Cheng flew back. He guessed Zhang Yijie couldn't take it anymore and tipped them off.

The two of them looked at their son. Ms. Zhong said, "I've never even met him."

Cheng Shuo said, "You would have really liked him. Your ideal, perfect son."

"And you?" Ms. Zhong asked.

"I liked him a lot too." He said it so directly, and then was startled by his own words.

He wanted to add, "as a friend," but his parents' expressions surprisingly didn't change.

"Mm..." Ms. Zhong continued, "But you are my perfect son."

She came out with such a random sentence that Cheng Shuo was choked into a fit of coughing.

He said, "Mom, what are you doing?"

Ms. Zhong said, "You've lost weight."

Mr. Cheng coughed, interrupting the tenderness he was completely unaccustomed to. "I heard from Yijie that you're planning a funeral for him?"

"Yeah..." Cheng Shuo said. "His mother is overcome with grief. I think it's better if we, his friends, take responsibility."

"If you need any help from us, just say so," Mr. Cheng asked. "Do you have enough money?"

"More than enough."

"Alright, give your friend a good send-off," Mr. Cheng nodded. "If you're feeling sad, talk to your mom and me, or to Yijie and Ziheng. Don't keep it to yourself."

"Oh..." He nodded, then asked, "Dad, do you have any friends who are psychologists?"

"What's wrong, do you want to see one?" Mr. Cheng looked up. "I can ask around."

"It's not for me." He was as calm as still water. "I just want to know what severe depression is really like. I want to know what Cen Zeng was going through."

He was still praying for another chance.

The utterly absurd rebirth, the rebirth that brought him countless pains, was now his lifeline.

He couldn't let Cen Zeng go, nor could he believe this was a perfect ending. What damn perfect ending, what damn full moon—it was all bullshit.

Since he didn't believe it, it was better to start over from the beginning.

Mr. Cheng coughed and exchanged a look with Ms. Zhong.

They were clearly wondering what on earth was wrong with their son.

In the end, it was Ms. Zhong who answered, "Mental health is indeed very important. We'll ask our friends if they know anyone giving public lectures on the topic, or if someone would be willing to talk to you, okay?"

He was a very lucky person. So, before Mr. Cheng and Ms. Zhong left, they had a meal with him and a friend of theirs who was a psychologist.

Across from him was a gentle and affable lady with gold-rimmed glasses and a neat short haircut.

By the end of the meal, he and the lady had agreed to talk once he was ready.

For several days straight, Senior Sister, Chen Ziheng, and Zheng Yi were bustling with activity. Zhang Yijie managed their meals while finding time to check on Cheng Shuo, who seemed to be both thinking about nothing and very busy.

Then his buddy was in his own apartment, calmly packing his luggage.

"Where are you going?" Zhang Yijie's leg was draped over the side of the sofa, swinging back and forth.

"To Mohe," Cheng Shuo said. "To scatter Cen Zeng's ashes there. I submitted a forest burial application with Cen Zeng's mother, and it was approved."

"What about the funeral?"

"Funerals are for the living, not for him," Cheng Shuo replied. "We'll bury his white coat."

"Should I go with you?"

"No need," Cheng Shuo said. "I'll be back soon."

After landing in Harbin and boarding the train, Cheng Shuo gathered his down jacket tighter, took off his gloves, then his hat, and looked at his backpack. He hadn't chosen an urn for Cen Zeng; he had picked up the box from Ms. Zhang's place.

It was one afternoon when Cheng Shuo brought her some small cakes from a dessert shop.

She calmly took them, opened the box, and saw there were two pieces.

"To have afternoon tea with you," Cheng Shuo explained. "It's been too long since I had anything sweet."

She nodded, gesturing for him to choose first. Blueberry and matcha cheesecake. He chose the green one.

Ms. Zhang was still not very talkative. She just asked him, "I saw online that many people are sending flowers for Cen Zeng?"

"Too many," Cheng Shuo replied. "So many that the hospital has stopped accepting them. I rented a memorial hall for them to put all the flowers."

Zhang Ruoxue said, "You've gone to a lot of trouble."

"It's no trouble. I feel better keeping busy." He gave her a slight smile. "And you, are you okay?"

Zhang Ruoxue poked at the blueberry on the cake and replied, "I'm doing fine. You came today. Is there something you wanted to say?"

Cen Zeng and her expression were quite similar in many moments.

Like right now—quiet, with a touch of gentleness that you wouldn't notice if you didn't look closely.

"Everything for the trip to Mohe has been arranged. I was thinking, Auntie, would you like to go with me?"

"It's fine if you go alone."

"Auntie, you trust me that much?"

"You know he hated spring," she replied. "He would definitely trust you to go, too."

"And you?"

"I'm still in the springtime." She took a bite of cake and, for once, showed a very faint smile. "This tastes nice."

Then, Cheng Shuo brought up the box for the ashes.

"I haven't bought one yet..." he said. "The one we're using now is from the funeral home after the cremation. I was thinking, could I take one from your home?"

Zhang Ruoxue nodded, saying there was a suitable one.

She went into a room and, a moment later, came out with a cookie tin.

"When Cen Zeng was younger, he would put his scholarship money in here as our emergency fund." She shook the box; it was empty now.

It was made of red and gold tin, the paint already peeling. It took a lot of effort to pry open. Inside was empty, but it was well-preserved and hadn't rusted.

And so, he left with it.

At this moment, he looked at it, then at the vast, thick fog rising outside the train window, feeling the illusion that he was on a Snow Country Train that would never reach its destination.

During each stop, whenever the doors opened, the biting chill of the lingering winter air would rush into his nostrils. He couldn't help but shiver in it, yet surprisingly, he also felt a long-lost sense of lightness.

Xie Daoyun once said snow was like willow catkins carried by the wind. As he watched the vast expanse of ice and drifting snow, he only felt it was like the pieces of artificial foam in a snow globe, endlessly falling and never melting.

Around morning, a staff member from the forest district accompanied him, then thoughtfully pointed the way before waiting where they were.

The wind was still strong, kicking up flurries of snow. In the snowfield that would not finish falling nor melt away, only his footprints remained.

Before him was a pine forest of unknown age, quiet and solemn. Ice and snow encased it like crystal, and the trees stood as straight as people.

He took off his gloves and opened the box. His fingers almost instantly felt a cold that cut like a knife.

With every breath, a mist almost formed.

The ashes were swept up by the fierce wind, scattering like light, like dust, before finally settling beneath the trees. The sound of the wind was surprisingly like a requiem.

He stood for a long time, and listened for a long time, then smiled and said, "Rest assured."

The pine trees still stood there silently, having heard who knows how many useless human vows.