A week had passed since returning to Beijing; the same time, the same familiar platform, and of course, the same familiar scene.
But there was one less familiar person.
Zhou Jiao, watching Zhang Guoqing waving his hand in greeting, suddenly thought her dad would never be able to stand there waiting for her as he used to.
With loss comes gain, as one's position rises, what is lost isn't often freedom?
However, perhaps in ten years, maybe twenty, in the blink of an eye, the familiar platform would appear again, with different faces.
As Zhang Guoqing stepped into the carriage, he carefully assessed his wife's expression—not bad. Then he glanced to the side at Ping'an, who was planning to carry the baggage, and appreciatively patted his shoulder, "Son, you've worked hard all along the way."
Ping'an's lips curved into a beautiful arc, "Not hard at all, just revisiting memories." He spoke while not missing a beat in his actions.
