Six years ago, she was the woman who lived in his apartment for seven months. He said she was "a nonentity". She's gone. One person. Pregnant.
Six years later, she was standing in the elevator of an office building holding a white rose. At the last moment when the elevator door closed, he walked through the crack. Didn't turn around. Didn't look at her.
But the smell—gardenia, eucalyptus, the scent of her shampoo—stayed in his nose.
He started checking. I found out her name was Zhang Zimei. I found out that she opened a flower shop called "Pinellia". It was found that there was a five-year-old girl with her. It was found that the girl's blood type was AB.
He thought he was here to be "responsible".
She pushed the DNA report back in front of him and said, "So."
