Seven years ago, Wen Zhao saw Lu Huaichuan's name on the death notice.
Seven years later, he stood in front of her car and asked her if she would give him a ride.
The lamp fell from her hand.
The visitor leaned over to pick it up, his eyebrows were clear and his collar was still buttoned neatly. The wind was cold at the ferry, and she exhaled a white breath, but he didn't.
Wen Zhao looked at him for a long time before finding his voice.
"Even if a dead person rides in a car, he still has to pay."
Lu Huaichuan handed over a roster. The female soldier who wants to return to the old camp, the ferryman who doesn't recognize his home, and the old man holding half a key are all waiting for this journey.
His name was written on the last page.
Home is blank.
"What about you?"
"Send them first."
Seven years ago, he also said the same thing, handing the last car of injured people to her. She drove the car far away and never waited for him to catch up.
This time, he still had the old contract tied to him. Every time a soul is sent back, it has to bear an additional loss for the other party.
Wen Zhao's finger rested on that blank space.
The ferry clapper rang three times before she moved half of the luggage on the car's shaft.
"Get in the car."
As soon as Lu Huaichuan sat down, she put the roster back into his hand.
"I owe you the car payment first."
She looked at him and said the second half of the sentence very slowly.
"When you decide where to go, pay me with your own hands."
