The New Year's fireworks were still exploding on the river at midnight. I held Ye Weilin covered in blood in my arms, and my fingertips couldn't stop the warmth that kept pouring out of her chest.
The daisy brooch hidden in my pocket, intended to be used as a confession, made my ribs hurt. The words "I like you" that I had practiced countless times were stuck in my throat, and I never had the chance to say them out.
Later, the red light in the emergency room went out, and the doctor shook his head and said those helpless words. I knelt on the cold floor, and all that was left in the world were white daisies and endless silence.
After countless days and nights, a letterless letter appeared at the door of the studio. Ten coins with numbers engraved on it lay quietly among the papers. One line of words made my eyes ache:
Put it in the mailbox No. 3 And you can see her again.
