The morning light in Hangzhou crept in gently, holding its breath as it began to touch the world. Mei sat next to the window, the lace curtains fluttering gently in the breeze. Outside, the air was tinged with the scent of rain and osmanthus, remnants of a recent downpour that had left the rooftops glistening.
She clutched her phone for a long while before finally dialing the number she once called every day, now a source of hesitation. Her fingers moved automatically, recalling the rhythm more than she did. The phone rang twice before a calm, deep voice greeted her.
"Mei."
Just her name, yet it echoed with years of shared mornings, quiet dinners, and the silence that had settled between them over time.
"Did I wake you?" she inquired, though she knew he was already awake before dawn.
"No". The house is quiet now."
A pause followed.
"Too quiet."
The silence that lingered was one only those who had once shared a life could endure.
Mei pressed her lips together, her gaze drawn to the steaming tea beside her.
"I just wanted to check in… how have you been?"
(What she really meant was she thought of him every time the sky turned grey.)
He pondered for a moment.
"The peonies are flowering early this year."
A soft ache settled in her chest.
"Jie mentioned that. She said they miss me."
"They miss your stubborn hands," he replied, (a hint of humor in his tone).
"You always pruned them when they didn't need it."
Mei gave a faint smile.
"They thrived because of it."
He didn't argue with her.
The ensuing silence felt fragile, as though it could shatter if either of them spoke carelessly.
Then, softly, he asked:
"And how is Li Na?"
The question hit her like a whisper on a wound.
"She's well." A pause. "Happy, I think."
He breathed out slowly. "Good. That's all we ever wanted."
Yet Mei frowned, her heart tightening.
"Is it?"
He took his time answering, his voice gentle and patient, reminiscent of when he had taught Li Na to ride her bike years ago.
"You've always believed happiness follows rules and direction — like a garden pruned to perfection. But Li Na… she's a wild peony. She grows wherever the sun hits, not just where you plant her."
Mei looked down.
"You make it sound easy."
"It's not. But it's true.", Cheng Yu whispered.
His words lingered in the air — raw and honest. The rain began to patter on the glass once again.
"You told her how much you care?."He asked. Mei hesitated her eyes wandering to the folded letter hidden in the drawer.
"I'm trying."
"I know," he replied, as if he could see right through her. "You never liked showing your softness," he murmured.
She emitted a small, brittle laugh. "Maybe because it never worked on you."
His quiet laugh resonated with a mix of nostalgia and pain.
"That's not true," he said, his tone softening.
"It's what made me love you," he added after a moment.
"It's also what broke us."
Something inside her cracked gently. She turned her gaze toward the window, her reflection faint in the pale morning light.
"I thought if I brought her home," she whispered, "I could fix our past mistakes."
"You can't rewrite time Mei," he replied gently. "And you can't live through her to find peace for yourself."
She wanted to argue, to express her loneliness, guilt, and the heartache of watching everything slip away. Instead, she remained silent.
"You sound like you're lecturing me," she said quietly.
"Old habits," he said gently. "And you still sound like you're pretending not to listen."
That made them both laugh softly and briefly, and for the first time in months, Mei felt the weight on her chest begin to lift.
When the call ended, she stayed still, the phone pressed to her chest, as if the warmth of his voice might remain.
She heard his words in her mind again — you can't rewrite time.
But maybe, she pondered, one could learn to stop resisting it.
Outside, the city seemed to come alive again — soft, tentative, breathing.
She walked to her desk, opened the drawer, and retrieved the folded letter to Li Na. This time, she didn't conceal it. Instead, she placed it on the table — visible, vulnerable, waiting.
For once, she didn't feel compelled to dictate what would happen next.
The rain traced delicate lines down the windowpane, glimmering like unspoken words.
Across town, he stood at his own window, phone still in hand, as the scent of rain permeated the garden. The peonies drooped under the weight of the droplets, vibrant and alive.
He glanced at the small patch of soil that Mei had once tended to — perhaps too meticulously — and smiled gently.
"She always cut too deep," he murmured. "Yet they bloomed brighter afterward."
He closed his eyes and envisioned her — in a little room, sitting by a window similar to his, holding herself together with quiet strength.
"You can't rewrite time," he had told her.
But as her laughter echoed faintly in his memory, he wondered — perhaps if two people hold onto each other with kindness, that could be a form of rewriting.
Outside, the wind rustled through the rain-soaked petals. A single peony broke free, drifting down silently, like an act of forgiveness.
"The rain had ceased, but the scent of memories lingered — faint, resilient, like a love that had forgotten how to depart."