The train was gone.
Yet Lu Yuan remained standing on the platform.
The tracks stretched endlessly into the distance, disappearing around a bend where the last glimpse of silver had vanished minutes ago.
He stared at them anyway.
As though if he waited long enough, the train might return.
As though this could somehow be undone.
Around him, the station slowly returned to normal.
Families gathered their belongings.
Vendors resumed calling out to customers.
Announcements echoed overhead.
Life continued.
The world moved forward.
But Lu Yuan couldn't seem to move with it.
The envelope in his hand had become slightly wrinkled from how tightly he was holding it.
A letter.
One final thing from Qingyue before she left.
His fingers tightened around it unconsciously.
Then loosened.
Not yet.
She had told him to wait until after she left.
Now she had.
And somehow opening it felt far more frightening than he expected.
Because once he read it...
there would be nothing left to postpone.
She was gone.
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
Real.
Permanent.
Forcing himself to move, Lu Yuan finally turned away from the tracks.
And began the walk home.
The city looked exactly the same.
The same roads.
The same storefronts.
The same afternoon sunlight breaking through the clouds left behind by yesterday's rain.
Everything was familiar.
Everything was unchanged.
Yet it all felt wrong.
At the corner bakery, warm red bean buns sat in the display window.
The sight made him stop.
For a moment, he simply stared.
A memory surfaced immediately.
"Let's go tomorrow!"
"I heard they're warm and sweet."
He looked away.
And kept walking.
A little farther ahead, he passed the small photo booth.
The curtain was open.
Empty.
The machine stood quietly beneath the fading afternoon light.
Another memory.
Qingyue laughing.
The camera flash.
Her teasing him for looking too serious.
His chest tightened.
He walked faster.
By the time he reached home, the sun had begun to set.
Orange light filtered through the windows.
The house was already loud.
His parents were arguing again.
The familiar shouting drifted through the walls.
Ordinarily, the noise would have made him tense.
Today, he barely heard it.
He climbed the stairs without speaking.
Entered his room.
Closed the door.
And sat down on the edge of his bed.
Silence settled around him.
For the first time all day, there was nothing distracting him.
No station.
No crowds.
No walking.
No pretending.
Just him.
And the empty space beside him.
A strange ache spread through his chest.
Slow.
Heavy.
Relentless.
Tomorrow, he would not wait beneath the ginkgo tree.
Tomorrow, she would not walk beside him.
Tomorrow, there would be no voice calling his name.
No smile.
No "Yuan."
His hands tightened.
The room suddenly felt far too quiet.
His gaze drifted toward the envelope.
Still unopened.
Still waiting.
Carefully, he picked it up.
The cream-colored paper was smooth beneath his fingertips.
Qingyue's handwriting curved neatly across the front.
Simple.
Familiar.
For a long moment, he only stared at it.
Then, slowly—
he broke the seal.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper.
And something else.
A photograph.
Their photograph.
The second one from the booth.
The good one.
The one where Qingyue was smiling and he had been looking slightly toward her instead of the camera.
His breath caught.
She had kept a copy.
And now she had given it to him.
Carefully, he set the photograph aside before unfolding the letter.
The paper trembled slightly in his hands.
Then he began to read.
Dear Yuan,
If you're reading this, then I've already left.
I thought it might be easier to write some things down instead of trying to say them at the station.
First, thank you.
For waiting for me after school all these years.
For walking home with me.
For always listening to my stories, even when they were boring.
A faint smile appeared despite himself.
Most of her stories hadn't been boring.
Not to him.
Never to him.
He continued reading.
I know you've been worried about me leaving.
But I hope you won't be too sad.
We're not saying goodbye forever.
The city is far away, but letters can travel much farther than people can.
So write to me.
Tell me what happens at school.
Tell me if the bakery still sells those red bean buns.
Tell me if the ginkgo tree loses all its leaves this year.
And if anything interesting happens, I want to hear about that too.
The words blurred slightly.
Lu Yuan blinked.
Only then realizing his eyes had begun to sting.
He lowered the letter briefly.
Then forced himself to continue.
Also...
Please take care of yourself.
Remember to eat breakfast.
Don't stay outside when it rains.
And try not to keep everything to yourself all the time.
You don't have to carry every problem alone.
His throat tightened painfully.
Because even now—
she was worrying about him.
Even now—
she remembered.
The final lines were written slightly lower on the page.
As though added at the last moment.
Thank you for being my friend, Yuan.
I'll miss our walks home.
But I promise I'll write soon.
So wait for my letter, okay?
— Qingyue
The room fell silent.
The letter ended.
But Lu Yuan didn't lower it.
He simply sat there.
Reading the final words again.
And again.
And again.
As though repetition could somehow keep her voice alive.
Outside, the shouting downstairs continued.
A glass shattered.
Someone slammed a door.
The familiar chaos of his home pressed against the walls.
But tonight, for the first time in years, he had no escape waiting for him tomorrow.
No guaranteed smile.
No familiar footsteps beside him.
Only memories.
And a promise written in ink.
Slowly, Lu Yuan reached for the photograph.
His thumb brushed lightly across Qingyue's smiling face.
Then he folded the letter carefully.
Neatly.
Protecting every crease.
Every word.
Before placing it beside the photo, the drawing, and the fountain pen.
His treasures.
His proof.
The last pieces of a happier world.
That night, long after the house had finally fallen silent, Lu Yuan lay awake staring at the ceiling.
The letter rested beneath his pillow.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to reassure himself it was real.
And for the first time since the train departed, he allowed himself one small comfort.
A promise.
She said she would write.
So he would wait.
No matter how long it took.
Because somewhere far away, beyond the city lights and distant tracks, Qingyue still remembered him.
And for now—
that was enough.