And so, we return once more to the bitter chill of Rome in the early winter of 2017. The evening falls early, the dark sky pressing down upon the city, as though the night itself cannot bear the cold. The wind rips through the streets, tearing at the very fabric of the city, while the flags flutter in the biting gusts, their once-hopeful sway now a mere shiver of defiance against the unrelenting winter. In the backseat of the car, Jiang Yunhe huddles, clutching her coat tightly, her fingertips digging into the fabric as though trying to anchor herself to something solid, something real. She cannot bear to look at the world outside, for it is too cold, too foreign, too distant. Her gaze stays fixed on the window, that transparent, icy barrier, imagining it might offer her some small respite, some fragile shield against the chill that seems to have seeped into her very soul.
But the cold is not only of the outside world. It wraps itself around her, a pervasive loneliness that settles deep within her, as though an invisible veil has descended, tightening around her heart. The silence in the car is thick, oppressive, as if the very air has frozen in place.
Phillipa sits in the front, her eyes occasionally flicking to Yunhe, but she does not speak. She knows, perhaps more than anyone, that words are futile here. In this moment, Yunhe does not need them. What she needs is the quiet understanding that exists between them, a comfort not born of words, but of shared experience. The driver, Jia Guiduo, remains focused on the road, his occasional glances in the rear-view mirror betraying nothing of his thoughts, his expression impassive. The tires hum monotonously over the cold asphalt, the streets empty, silent, as if the entire city is asleep, frozen in the grip of winter’s hand.
Yunhe’s eyes drift beyond the glass, following the fading lights of the city. They blur into nothingness, and in their dying glow, she sees only the reflection of something lost—something that will never return to her. Her home, that place that was never truly hers, and the man who no longer belongs to her.
“Where do you want to go?” Phillipa’s voice cuts through the silence, soft but laced with concern.
Yunhe doesn’t answer, only shakes her head, her lips trembling as if they cannot find the strength to speak. The emptiness within her is overwhelming, a vast cold that seems to stretch endlessly, leaving her no place to rest, no place to breathe. She lowers her gaze to her hands, trembling slightly from the cold. Once, she had been like a bird, warm and light, her wings soft with life. But now she is heavy, her heart weighed down like a leaf that no longer knows how to fly.
The car rolls to a stop at the airport. There, before her, is the familiar building, the place where he will be Jia Linru. She knows he is inside, waiting, and with every passing second, her heart beats faster, her breath caught in her chest. The air between them is charged with something—an anxious expectation that she cannot suppress. She knows this is it. The final goodbye, the one she has been dreading, is inevitable now.
When he appears, it is just as she expected: Jia Linru, the same cold expression, the same distance between them. His face is like stone, a mask of indifference, and his coat—dark, imposing—clashes against the wind like armor. He looks at her for a moment, his eyes passing over her as though she is nothing more than another passerby in a city of countless faces.
“Are you cold?” Yunhe asks, her voice trembling, soft, but there is something in it—something too raw to hide.
But Jia Linru does not answer. He merely nods slightly, his lips curving into a cold, empty semblance of a smile. “Mhm.” The word, so simple, so brief, pierces her like the sharp edge of the wind.
Her hand falters in the air, meant to offer comfort, meant to bring warmth, but instead it freezes in place, caught by his indifference. Her heart clenches, a heavy weight pressing against her chest. She searches his eyes, desperate for a glimmer of what they once shared, but finds only the cold emptiness of a stranger. The warmth she had known is gone, extinguished.
She looks away, her tears threatening to fall, but she holds them back. She knows now—she will never get anything from him again. She raises her gaze, following the distant lights, the same ones that have faded into her past, and she understands now, in a sudden, brutal clarity. It is not comfort she seeks. It is that lost warmth, the warmth that no longer belongs to her.
“You’re still cold,” she murmurs, a forced smile barely touching her lips. Her voice shivers, her lips drawn tight, but there is no warmth left to offer.
He lowers his gaze, and for a brief moment, their eyes meet. In that instant, she sees it: the exhaustion, the weariness buried in his gaze. The tenderness that had once been there is gone, replaced by something hollow, something that refuses to be understood.
“Mhm,” he responds, and the coldness in his voice cuts through her like a blade.
Yunhe feels it—an awful, undeniable truth. She is no longer the woman he can turn to, no longer the woman whose love could warm him. She had once poured her soul into him, hoping he might feel her pain, her solitude, but now, she knows it was all in vain. She stands before him, and the weight of her own desolation presses down on her. The air feels heavier now, suffocating, and she begins to wonder—has she ever truly had a place in his life?
“You…” she begins, but the words catch in her throat. There is nothing left to say, nothing left to change.
He turns away without a second glance. The distance between them grows with each step, his back turning to her as he walks away. Her heart beats faster, a strange, desperate impulse rising within her. She steps forward, her hand reaching out, a fleeting touch on his shoulder, as if to bridge the chasm that has opened between them. But he does not turn, does not react.
“Linru,” she calls, her voice trembling, her heart pounding in her chest as if it might shatter.
He stops. For a moment, there is something—something in his eyes. A flicker of something soft, something almost forgotten. But it is fleeting, swallowed quickly by the cold indifference that has taken its place.
“Linru,” she calls again, softer now, a plea in her voice, “Why have you become this way?”
His lips move, but no words come. He only looks at her, his gaze far away, as though lost in some memory, some thought too distant for her to grasp. Yunhe feels the familiar ache in her chest, the emptiness that stretches deep inside her, and she knows—there is no going back. She cannot change what has happened. She cannot change him.
“I’m leaving,” he says at last, his voice still cold, still distant. He turns and walks away, his figure retreating into the dark, growing smaller with each passing step.
Yunhe stands there, the wind brushing against her, a cold sweat breaking out on her skin. In that moment, she has never felt so utterly alone.
