By the time Mo Xuan arrived, the funeral was already drawing to a close.

A fine drizzle fell from the sky. Few pedestrians wandered the quiet suburban roads.

Mo Xuan stood at the end of the line, unrecognized by nearly everyone.

Shen Bingyao had never been sociable. Homeschooled and confined to a wheelchair, she had minimal contact with others and few friends. Her introverted, insecure nature left her isolated even in university—a lonely, invisible presence.

Even at this funeral, most attendees were relatives who had come to help.

He couldn’t find Shen Bingjing. She seemed to have hidden deliberately upon seeing him; her phone went unanswered. Helpless, Mo Xuan followed the line forward, offered an incense stick to the girl in the portrait, and gazed at her silently.

In the black-and-white frame, the girl looked delicate and serene—long hair flowing over a smooth forehead, lips curved slightly upward in a shy, pure smile he remembered well, utterly free of the later illness and madness.

Truthfully, Shen Bingyao was beautiful. Unlike her sister’s lively warmth, her gentle frame carried a willowy fragility reminiscent of Lin Daiyu. In memory, she always sat in a black wheelchair wearing a pure white cotton dress, pear blossoms drifting behind her, smiling in the sun, skin pale almost to translucence.

She was always smiling—just as Shen Bingjing later said on the balcony: “A smile was my sister’s only reply to this cruel world.”

Unfamiliar voices called from behind—Shen Bingyao’s relatives. This man, seemingly a classmate, had lingered too long, interrupting others’ respects and drawing quiet disapproval.

Mo Xuan bowed his head in apology and stepped aside. As he moved, he rubbed his eyes—a sting in his nose.

Music, light as smoke, drifted through the rain. Through the thin mist, the world blurred before him.

A black umbrella appeared over his head, shielding him from the drizzle.

He turned. A girl stood there, dressed entirely in black.

Her face was identical to Shen Bingyao’s—except her jet-black hair was tied neatly behind her with a hair tie.

He recognized it: the black-and-white hair tie Shen Bingyao had given her sister for her birthday. Shen Bingjing’s most cherished possession.

Clad in a black trench coat and heels, only black and white adorned her. Slender and straight, she seemed a phantom in water.

He didn’t know how long she’d stood in the rain. Her velvet coat was damp; her pale, delicate face glistened—rain or tears, impossible to tell.

She wore no makeup. Perhaps due to their long separation, Mo Xuan didn’t recognize her at once—but he saw she’d grown thinner.

They stood in silence. Her pitch-black eyes held not a trace of warmth.

“Shen Bingjing?” Mo Xuan asked, half questioning, half certain.

She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Face calm, no ripple of emotion. Still holding the umbrella, her voice cool and hoarse: “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

Mo Xuan offered a bitter smile. What did she take him for? Did marriage mean cutting all ties? He’d wanted to visit Shen Bingyao too—but Yun Jiumo had stopped him: “It’s because of you she became this way. Seeing you might only hurt her more.”

By the time he planned to pick her up after discharge, they were already parted by death.

In the awkward silence, Shen Bingjing slowly shifted her gaze to her sister’s portrait.

The smiling girl in the frame seemed to watch her back, as if still beside her.

She thrust the umbrella into Mo Xuan’s hands and walked unsteadily forward to offer incense.

After a hesitation, Mo Xuan stepped close, shielding her from the cold rain.

The moment she raised her head and clasped her hands, he saw her eyes blink rapidly—a single tear rolled down, then vanished.

An indescribable weight of grief pressed his chest. Strength drained from his grip on the umbrella. He suddenly felt he didn’t belong here. He didn’t deserve to be.

Shen Bingjing was her sister. These mourners were blood relatives.

And him? Who was he? What role had he played in the Shen sisters’ lives?

If he’d never entered their world… would they have walked a quieter, safer path?

Mo Xuan didn’t know. All he knew was: it was too late for words.

“Do you know, Mo Xuan?” Shen Bingjing spoke with her back to him, silhouette trembling faintly. “My sister’s greatest wish was for you to truly see her. To look at her face, into her eyes—that alone would have satisfied her.”

“And she never told you that, did she?”

Mo Xuan stood speechless.

“But if you’d paid even slight attention… Every time you came, she lit up. Despite her limits, she’d brew your tea herself. See you stubbornly to the door. Then struggle back in her wheelchair.”

“When you spoke, she never interrupted. Just sat quietly listening, that happy, contented smile never leaving her face.”

“Sometimes I noticed… I even asked if she liked you. She’d stammer, hesitate. I took it for shyness—she’d always been that way.”

Shen Bingjing rambled on. Fragments of the past drifted into the damp mist, pale notes vanishing at the edge of the ashen sky.

Mo Xuan listened in silence, hands clenching and loosening, face shadowed.

Finally, voice thick with remorse: “I… truly didn’t notice…”

Her body tensed for a second—then went slack. She didn’t turn. Her voice softened.

“I know. My sister knew too.”

A self-mocking smile touched her lips. “Back then, your heart and eyes held only Yun Jiumo. How could you have seen my sister?”

“Are you blaming me?” Mo Xuan asked, bitter.

She turned.

Only then did he see she’d been crying all along. The strength it took to speak so calmly… Yet when his eyes met her face—so like the portrait—he faltered, nearly mistaking her for Shen Bingyao.

Because *she* had broken down before him once too. And he’d never cared. Never noticed.

A sharp claw seemed to seize his heart, aching until it might bleed.

Weeping, Shen Bingjing yanked the hair tie free. Her damp hair tumbled over her shoulders like water—thick, dark, alive.

For a heartbeat, Mo Xuan saw an illusion:

The girl rising from her wheelchair, face glowing with joy and hope, stumbling toward him step by step. Sunlight catching her hair. Reborn.

“It’s like…” he murmured, dazed.

They looked identical. To tell them apart, Shen Bingjing had always tied her hair.

Now, with it loose after years, Mo Xuan felt the dizzying illusion: Shen Bingyao stood before him, smiling.

Two steps closed the distance.

“Did you ever like my sister?” Her eyes held a fierce, pained intensity.

Mo Xuan looked away. His gaze drifted to the portrait.

She still smiled—but her eyes held lonely sorrow.

“Now you’re finally willing to truly see her,” Shen Bingjing whispered, voice trembling, tears streaming. “But no one imagined it would be like this.”

Mo Xuan said nothing. The weight on his shoulders deepened. Exhaustion seeped from his bones, filling every pore.

“Are you free now?”

“…Yes.” He hesitated.

“Come with me. There are things about my sister I need to tell you.”

“…Mm…”