"Sun Yanyi, I don't have a cold or a fever right now, and it's not a toothache or a stomach problem. There's a soybean-sized tumor in my brain. It could threaten my life at any moment. Maybe it'll get worse while we're on the phone, and I'll die, Yanyi. I'll die, Yanyi. But, Yanyi, there's no one who can stay with me, Yanyi." As Chi Yan said those words, she finally sounded like a normal girl. She could be afraid, she could cry. She was still my Chi Yan. "Yanyi, my surgery is tomorrow afternoon."
When I saw Chi Yan at the hospital, she was about to sign the consent form herself. I signed it for her. I'd never thought the three characters in Sun Yanyi could be so hard to write. Chi Yan said to me, "Yanyi, thank you. I'm actually scared. What if I die on the operating table? Yanyi, do you know that if I really died today, there wouldn't even be anyone to bury me? Yanyi, thank goodness I have you." As I turned and walked out of the room, Chi Yan said again, "Yanyi, I'm scared." I didn't know those would be the last words Chi Yan ever said.
After Chi Yan went into surgery, I used her phone to call Yuan Xi and the others. The empty hallway outside the operating room was suddenly filled with them. I looked at the scarlet light and said, "Chi Yan, the people who can bury you are here." Then I went back to Canada.
Two months later, I learned from Chi Yan's lawyer that she had died on the operating table.
