The whole city knew that Su Qinghe married Fu Yanci because he looked like her late senior brother.
Everyone said: Second Young Master Fu is really pitiful. He poured out his sincerity, but he was just a substitute.
Someone was joking to her face, while she was repairing ancient scrolls with her head down, her voice calm and calm:
"Who in this world would like fake things?"
With her, there was never any talk of a substitute.
But he didn't know, he just thought that he was the fake from beginning to end.
---
His friend complained on his behalf: "Are you just going to endure it like this?"
He smiled and said softly:
"It's my honor to be in her eyes."
---
Later, he finally became disheartened and chose to fulfill her wish.
The day he let go, he left a note:
"Teacher Su, fake it and leave. From now on, you just want to be real."
Su Qinghe was stunned when he saw the note.
She was just used to his daily breakfast, to the light he left on late at night, and to being the first to call him when she encountered a problem.
She didn't know what they were called.
She only knew that when he left, the house became cold and her heart seemed empty.
---
So she chased him and grabbed his wrist:
"I don't understand what you wrote. But can you... Don't leave yet?"
He turned back, his eyes red:
"Su Qinghe, what am I in your heart?"
Later someone asked him: "When did you become sure that she loved you?"
He thought about it and smiled.
"When she chased her out, she didn't even know why she chased her."
"But I know."
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[Misunderstanding of the substitute·Strong confrontation·Emotionally insensitive female protagonist·Cynical male protagonist]
Ancient book restorer × Architectural designer
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What she thought was a habit was called love to him.
The substitute he thought was her was the only one.
——It wasn't until he was about to leave that she realized that some people couldn't just get used to it.
Purpose: She repairs the fragments of a thousand-year-old book, and he builds a century-old character. What they guard is never just things, it is the wounds of time, and the roots that a nation refuses to cut off.