Su Wan’s fingers paused for a moment before swiping the screen open.

It was a WeChat message from Zhou Li.

[“I’ve made contact. I’ve suggested you on WeChat—just treat him like a utility person.”]

Right below it was a friend request, with a completely black profile picture and the ID “Niguang,” no bio. A sudden wave of bitterness welled up in her eyes, as if something invisible had pricked them.

Back then, she had asked him why he’d chosen that name. He smiled at her, his eyes shining: “Because with you around, even the darkest places are bathed in backlight—there’s always hope.”

But later, it was he himself who had extinguished that light.

Su Wan tapped the verification message; it read just two words: “Equipment.”

Just as she hesitated, her phone suddenly vibrated again—a text from an unknown number, only one short sentence: “Heard you need a photographer? I can help. —Shen Rongyuan”

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at those words for what felt like an eternity, until the screen dimmed and then brightened again on its own. Finally, she raised her hand and tapped “Accept.”

The moment the chat window popped up, she struck first.

[Zhou Li said you have an extra camera that you need urgently. Could you lend it to me for a day? The fee is negotiable.]

As soon as she sent the message, the chat box above instantly displayed “The other party is typing…” but those few words hung there for ten seconds before quietly disappearing.

Three minutes passed.

[Shen Rongyuan: Sure. When?]

She didn’t hesitate any longer and quickly typed back:

[How about tomorrow afternoon? I’ll send you the address.]

Her reply came almost immediately.

[Shen Rongyuan: That works.]

After a brief pause, another message popped up:

[It’s been two months—how have you been lately?]

Su Wan stared at that line, her knuckles tightening involuntarily, her palms growing damp.

Two months?

No, it wasn’t two months at all.

It felt like an entire lifetime had passed.

The last time they’d seen each other was on the day she graduated from her senior year in her previous life. After Shen Rongyuan helped her carry the very last box of books, he stood beneath their dormitory building, sunlight streaming across his face—so beautiful it looked like a painting.

She remembered summoning the courage to ask, “Will we… go to City S together someday?”

Shen Rongyuan remained silent for what seemed like an eternity, so long that she began to think he wouldn’t answer after all.

Then he said, “Su Wan, let’s… stop here.”

No reason, no explanation—even not a single “I’m sorry.”

She stood there, her mind blank, unable even to cry.

By the time she finally snapped out of it and tried to run after him to get some answers, he was already far away, his silhouette stretched long by the setting sun—like a thorn embedded deep in her flesh, impossible to pull out or dissolve.

After that, she tried calling, texting, and asking mutual friends to find out what had happened.

All she got in return was a cold, final reply: “Don’t wait for me anymore.”

Later, she deleted all his contact information, stuffed the scarf he’d given her, their photos, and the ticket stubs into a cardboard box, and shoved it to the very bottom of her bed. She told herself, “Su Wan, move on—don’t look back.”

And she really did go far.

Graduation, starting a job, working overtime until dawn, squeezing onto the subway, rewriting scripts, chasing trending topics—she drifted and struggled in the tide of short-form video…

She thought she’d long since healed.

But when that name reappeared in the chat window, she realized—

that thorn had never truly disappeared; it had simply been covered over by thick scabs of time, buried deep within the cracks of her bones. Touch it, and the pain would still be excruciating.

[On the same day, on the other side of City A]

Shen Rongyuan gently set his phone down at the corner of the desk, leaned back in his chair, and pressed his fingertips against his browbone, as if trying to hold something in place. The slanting rays of the setting sun streamed in through the window, bathing the entire room in a thin, warm layer of orange light—like the soft tones that emerge when old film is developed.

The camera was still connected to the data cable, and the screen showed several frames he’d captured today: an empty bench at the end of a long street, sycamore leaves trembling faintly in the backlight, and an elderly couple walking hand in hand across a zebra crossing, their shadows stretched long, as though they were moving slowly yet never letting go.

End of Chapter 9: Shen Rongyuan