RPAGF Chapter 1056 She
Chapter 1056 She
Flowers on Ashes Chapter 3 Old Letters The wooden ladder to the attic creaked underfoot, like an old man gasping for breath under the heavy burden. Shen Zhiyi held onto the dusty railing, and with every step she took upwards, the dust kicked up danced more merrily in the beams of light. Sunlight slanted in through the dormer window, casting diamond-shaped spots of light on the floor, illuminating the tiny particles dancing in the air, as if they were fragments left behind by time. No one had been here for three years. When Fu Shiyan said yesterday, "Your mother's things are in the attic," her fingertips twitched nervously. All of her mother's belongings were lost in the mental hospital, and she thought she would never see those handkerchiefs embroidered with lily of the valley and sketchbooks filled with doodles again in her lifetime. The spider web at the top of the stairs was swept away by her cuffs, and the sticky silk threads were wrapped around her wrists, like the cold IV tubes on the operating table three years ago. Shen Zhiyi took a deep breath, and the musty smell mixed with the scent of the camphorwood box rushed into her nose, choking her eyes. In the corner, there were several old furniture covered with cloth. The dustproof cloth was covered with dead leaves, which must have drifted in through the dormer window last autumn. She walked to the camphorwood box closest to the wall, and the green rust on the brass lock rubbed all over her hands. The moment she opened the lid of the box, a frightened gecko suddenly scurried into the crack in the wall, and the dust it raised blinded her eyes. The bottom of the box was covered with her mother's blue cloth cheongsam, and the buttons at the collar had oxidized and turned black. Shen Zhiyi's fingertips stroked the fine stitching, and she remembered that when she was a child, she always loved to hide under the hem of the cheongsam, smelling the faint camphor scent and listening to her mother tell stories. At this moment, the back of her hand hit a hard object. When she moved the cheongsam away, the tin box was exposed in full. Most of the military green paint had peeled off, and the corners were covered with rust, like a bullet shell abandoned on the battlefield. Shen Zhiyi's heartbeat inexplicably quickened. She recognized this box - it was the one Fu Shiyan bought with her pocket money she had saved for half a year on his fifteenth birthday. He had said at the time that it was to hold the "most important secret." She pinched the edge of the lid and gently lifted it. With a soft "click," a half-yellowed envelope appeared at the bottom of the dusty box. The kraft paper of the envelope had become brittle with time. A faded stamp was stuck to the upper right corner, and the Great Wall printed on it was already blurred. Shen Zhiyi's breathing suddenly stopped. The handwriting on the envelope was vigorous and powerful, with a sharp edge between the strokes. It was Fu Shiyan's unique handwriting. The recipient's place was left blank, with only a simple lily of the valley drawn in the blank space. The petals were pierced with a few tiny holes by the tip of the pen, as if she had written too hard. Her fingertips holding the envelope began to tremble, and her nails dug into the folds of the paper. In the past three years, Fu Shiyan had never written to her. During the eight months in the mental hospital, she lay in front of the iron window every day waiting for the postman, until the nurse said impatiently, "Mr. Fu is busy, how can he have time to write to you", and finally gave up. The letter paper made a slight "rustling" sound when it was pulled out, and it was as crisp as dried leaves. Shen Zhiyi held her breath and unfolded it. Suddenly, a diagonal crack appeared on the paper - from the word "奈" in "莫奈" to the foot of the page, as if it had been soaked in someone's tears and dried. "Today I saw her copying Monet in the studio, and the sunlight falling on the ends of her hair looked like a layer of gold." The ink spread out fine edges on the paper, and Shen Zhiyi suddenly appeared in front of his eyes that afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the studio's skylight, casting a shadow of the latticework on Fu Shiyan's white shirt. He stood behind her, watching her mix her colors, his breath caressing her ear. "Zhiyi's painting is so good! More like Monet than Monet." She was fuming over her inability to capture the light and shadow of the water lilies, and upon hearing this, she threw down her brush. "That's because the model is so good." Fu Shiyan was amused and reached out to ruffle her hair, the warmth of his palm scalding the tips of her ears. "The nurse said she hid the medicine under her pillow again. What a stubborn girl!" These words were like a needle, piercing Shen Zhiyi's temple without warning. She suddenly remembered the head nurse at the mental hospital, the stern-faced middle-aged woman who would always watch her swallow her medicine before leaving. But she always managed to hide the pills under the bed when no one was paying attention. Until one day, when Fu Shiyan came to visit, he bent over to tie his shoelaces and suddenly pulled out a handful of pills he had saved for half a month from under the bed. He said nothing at the time, just looked at her silently, the disappointment in his eyes drowning her like a tide. That night, the nurse changed the way of giving medicine - crushing the pills into powder and mixing them into the porridge. The sweet rice fragrance could not cover the bitter taste of the medicine. Shen Zhiyi's fingertips stroked the paper and touched the raised pen marks on the word "stubborn". It turned out that he knew everything. The folds on the second piece of letter paper were deeper, and the edges were already worn rough. When Shen Zhiyi unfolded it, the corner of the paper "hissed" and broke in two. "The matching report is out." The handwriting suddenly became sloppy here, and the marks where the pen tip scratched the paper were clearly visible. Shen Zhiyi's heart seemed to be squeezed by an invisible hand, and even breathing became difficult. She knew this report - the bone marrow matching report. It was with it that Fu Shiyan rushed into her ward on that rainy night three years ago and said, "Zhiyi, our matching was successful." She had a high fever at the time and was blurred. She only felt that his voice seemed to come from far away. "I can do something for her after all." The ink on these words was exceptionally thick, spreading across the page like a small, dark cloud, like drops of blood on rice paper. Shen Zhiyi's eyes flashed back to the scribbled signature on the consent form for surgery. As Fu Shiyan's pen pierced the page, she could almost hear the sound of her heart breaking. "It's just that I feel a little regretful that I won't be able to watch her paint again." The last few words were crooked, as if his hand was shaking as he wrote them. Shen Zhiyi couldn't hold back her tears, finally falling, landing on the word "regret." The smudged ink blurred the strokes and her vision. She remembered how Fu Shiyan always loved to sit in the rattan chair in the studio and watch her paint, sometimes offering her a glass of warm water, sometimes pointing out flaws in her coloring, but more often he would just watch in silence, his eyes as gentle as a spring breeze across a lake. Once, she asked him why he kept watching her, and he smiled and said, "Watching Zhiyi paint is more comfortable than looking at any famous painting." It turned out that from that moment on, he knew that one day he would no longer be able to see her. Shen Zhiyi pressed the letter against her chest. The cold paper pressed against her hot skin, burning her heart. There were other things in the tin box - a few faded bookmarks, a notebook full of formulas, and finally what her fingertips touched was a piece of hard cardboard. When she pulled it out, she found that it was a hospital diagnosis. The printed handwriting was a little blurry. Shen Zhiyi's eyes fell on the date, and her pupils suddenly contracted - that rainy night three years ago, the same day as her surgery. Her fingertips stroked the words "acute leukemia". The ink had long dried up, but it was as hot as a branding iron. There was a one-inch photo on the lower right corner of the diagnosis. Fu Shiyan in the photo was wearing a hospital gown. His face was pale, but his eyes were surprisingly bright, and there was a faint smile on the corner of his mouth. Shen Zhiyi's mind exploded. She suddenly remembered the day she woke up from a coma. The effect of the anesthetic had not completely subsided, and her vision was blurred as if covered by a layer of fog. The nurse pushed a bed past the door of her ward.