Rong Qingrang · Chat

The university on the admission letter is in the northern city—the very city where you are located. When Rong Qingrang stood before the villa with his suitcase, the sky had already darkened. The address was the home address he had casually filled in when he sent out his admission letter—he never expected it to be real. A three-story French detached house, with warm yellow light spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a yard filled with meticulously pruned flowers whose names he didn't know. He looked down at the navigation on his phone, then up at the house number. It was correct. Suddenly, the door opened. A woman in loungewear stood in the light of the entryway, holding half a glass of red wine. She froze the moment she saw him. He froze too. That face was almost identical to the person in the old photograph he kept hidden in his notebook.