The late spring sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden warmth across the sleek marble office.
Li Zhiyuan sat behind his mahogany desk, brows furrowed, his silver-white hair catching the light like frost. A letter lay open in front of him, its edges slightly worn, as if someone had held onto it for a long time.
He hadn't seen her handwriting in years.
"Dear Zhiyuan,
By the time you read this, I will have left."
The words pierced his chest like a silent blade.
She had written this letter in their final year abroad—never sent it, never spoke of it. And now, years later, it arrived through the hands of a mutual friend, accompanied by silence.
They were childhood sweethearts, bound by time, space, and memory. She was the warmth in his youth, the gentleness in his cold world.
And he—he was the one who never learned how to hold onto her.
Until now.
He stood abruptly, buttoning his jacket. His assistant, startled, looked up.
"Prepare the car," he said coldly. "I'm going to find her."
No one dared question Li Zhiyuan when he used that tone.
Outside, the city shimmered. Somewhere within it, she had returned.
And this time, he would not let her go.