Her voice trembled slightly, but she continued.
"He’s not perfect. He can be cold. He can be stubborn. But when it cos to ... he’s different. He looks at like I’m sothing precious. Like I’m... irreplaceable."
Her mother watched her carefully, a knowing warmth spreading across her face.
"I can see it in your eyes," she said gently. "You shine when you speak about him."
Hua Jing lowered her gaze shyly, her cheeks faintly flushed.
"If that is so," her mother continued softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her daughter’s face, "then you should not keep him waiting too long. He must be desperate right now, thinking that you are gone. You should go back to him."
The words were kind, but they carried finality.
A crack ford in Hua Jing’s composure.
Tears welled up in her eyes almost instantly, blurring her vision. She shook her head faintly, as if trying to delay the inevitable.
"But I just found you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I don’t want to say goodbye again."
Without warning, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms tightly around her mother.
This ti, it was different.
This ti, she understood.
She understood that this mont—this embrace—was not sothing she could return to whenever she wished. It was not a dream she could revisit freely. It was a gift. A fleeting, fragile gift.
She clung tighter.
"I love you so much, Mom," she sobbed into her mother’s shoulder. "I love you. I’ve always missed you. Not a single day passed where I didn’t think about you. I hope... wherever you are... you’re doing well. I hope you’re happy."
Her mother held her just as tightly, one hand gently patting her back the way she used to when Hua Jing was small and crying over scraped knees or broken toys.
"I am doing very, very well," her mother replied, her voice warm and reassuring. "There is nothing for you to worry about. I am at peace. And I am so happy that you found soone who takes care of you the way you deserve."
She pulled back slightly, cupping Hua Jing’s tear-streaked face in her hands.
"You should go back," she said softly. "And take care of him as well."
Hua Jing nodded weakly, though her heart resisted with every fiber of her being.
But as she nodded, she felt it.
The warmth around her began to thin.
Her mother’s touch, once solid and steady, grew lighter.
The edges of her figure softened, as though dissolving into the surrounding glow.
"Mom?" Hua Jing’s voice rose in alarm. "Mom?"
Her mother was already a step farther away.
"Mom, wait—"
The light intensified, almost blinding now. Her mother’s form beca translucent, fading like mist under the morning sun.
"Mom!" she cried, reaching forward desperately.
A faint voice drifted toward her, gentle and filled with endless love.
"Goodbye, my child. I love you forever."
And then she was gone.
The space where she had stood was empty.
Hua Jing fell to her knees, tears spilling freely as grief and longing collided in her chest. The loss felt fresh all over again, as if she were that little girl at a funeral, too young to understand why her mother would never co ho.
But through her sobs, she felt sothing else.
A pull.
A force drawing her backward, steady and unyielding.
She looked up and saw it—a distant beam of light, brighter and sharper than the soft glow that had surrounded her before. This light felt different. It felt urgent. Alive.
She understood instinctively.
Her mother was not coming back.
This was goodbye.
And if she wanted to live—if she wanted to return to the man who was calling her na with such desperate devotion—she had to walk toward that light.
She rose slowly, wiping her tears with trembling hands.
For one last ti, she looked at the empty space where her mother had stood.
"I love you," she whispered into the fading warmth.
Then, gathering what remained of her strength, Hua Jing turned and followed the light.
...
Fu Jing Rong was still holding her as though letting go would undo the miracle that had just happened. His arms were wrapped around her tightly, almost fiercely, his forehead pressed against her damp hair as he kept whispering in a broken voice, "Co back... co back to . Don’t leave . Not today. Please, not today."
He did not care that his n were watching. He did not care that his hands were shaking or that his voice had long since lost its steadiness. All that existed in that mont was the fragile body in his arms and the unbearable fear that she might slip away again if he loosened his hold even slightly.
And then—
He felt it.
A movent.
So faint that at first he thought it was his imagination. But it ca again—slight, deliberate.
He stiffened and looked down.
Hua Jing’s fingers, weak and trembling, had sohow curled into the fabric at his waist. Her hands, which monts ago had lain lifeless against him, were now clutching him as though anchoring herself there.
Before he could process it fully, he felt warm breath against his ear.
"I’m already here," she whispered softly, her voice hoarse but unmistakably alive. "No more crying... I love you."
For a second, he could not respond. His mind simply could not catch up with what his heart already understood. He pulled back just enough to see her face.
Her eyes were open.
Weak, glassy with exhaustion—but open.
Tears that he had not realized were still clinging to his lashes finally fell freely down his face. They slid unrestrained across his cheeks, cutting clean tracks through the dirt sared there.
"I was so scared," he whispered, his voice trembling openly now. "I was so scared. Thank you... thank you for coming back."
Hua Jing shifted, gathering what little strength she had, and wrapped her arms around his neck. It was not a strong embrace, but it was desperate. Clinging. As though she, too, feared that if she loosened her hold, reality might shift again.
"I was so scared that I would never see you again," she murmured against his shoulder. "It was so dark. I thought... I thought I wouldn’t co back. I was so, so scared."
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