Rebirth: Looking Back in a Sudden Realization - Chapter 2

Twelve years had passed in a flash. At the age of thirteen, during that summer vacation, Shao Chuyan had once again stood before Zhao Longhua. It was the first reunion of the family of four since she could remember—yet she had never imagined it would be under such a tragic scene.

Dark clouds loomed, the sky pressed low. Fine threads of drizzle soaked her black hair. Today was her twenty-fifth birthday. But that didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered. The little white flower tucked by her ear looked harshly bright under the gloomy sky. Rain ran down her neck, the fine autumn drizzle soaking into her black blazer, spreading into a dark patch that hardly showed, yet the chill seeped straight into her vest. Cold wind howled through her body, and she dug her nails into her flesh to resist the bone-piercing chill, her teeth chattering audibly.

The priest murmured before her: “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live…” The guests around them stood in solemn silence. But she heard nothing. Her eyes fixed on the three gravestones in front of her, as if by staring hard enough, those beneath the soil could rise again, speak to her, tell her why—why all of this had happened! Seared into her bloodshot eyes was a mix of consuming hatred and endless grief. Her eyes were dry, incapable of tears, yet it felt as if bl00d might spill from them instead. Her pale, cold face—more hopeless than any wailing.

The elderly priest finally finished his prayers. He stepped forward, made the sign of the cross before her chest, and said softly, “Child, the Lord will protect you. Please accept your grief.”

Shao Chuyan said nothing, still staring blankly at the three gravestones.

Zhao Pingzhang immediately stepped forward, bowing slightly to the priest: “Pastor John, please don’t take it to heart. The child has been badly shaken.”

The priest sighed deeply and shook his head—no offense taken. He truly pitied her. After all, who could endure losing both parents and a younger brother within the span of a week?

Turning back, Zhao Pingzhang spoke with tender pity: “Chuyan, you’re still young. You must take care of your health. Leave the funeral arrangements to your uncle. Don’t worry.”

Her vacant eyes blinked once in response, a faint nod showing she’d heard. Yet her feet carried her uncontrollably forward. She gazed down at the man in the first grave. His handsome face, brows furrowed tight, seemed locked with worries even unto death. Though age had marked him, dignity and extraordinary bearing still lingered. That was her father. A man who had never truly fulfilled his duty to her, yet chose suicide after bankruptcy to protect the family from creditors. So he, too, had gone gray. He, too, had grown old. He was not forever untouchable and proud.

Step by step, she reached the second grave. The beautiful woman’s face was frozen in a satisfied smile, though the gashes on her wrist were ghastly. Death had not marred her beauty; the lashes still growing long gave her an added grace. At last, her mother had repaid the son she felt indebted to, at the cost of abandoning her daughter.

A bitter taste rose in Chuyan’s throat. Her body swayed as she forced herself onward to the third grave. She covered her mouth and nose, stifling the sobs clawing up her throat. A young face lay there—handsome, delicate, almost too pretty for a man, eight parts resembling her brother Zhao Yin’er. Only twenty-two. A blunt wound at the back of his head. She had seen him herself, lying in that pool of bl00d. The kidnappers, ruthless, had killed him before the ransom could even be delivered. She had held him in her arms, felt his warmth fade inch by inch, and with him, her mother’s life drained away too. Her beloved Xiaoyuan now lay there like a wind-up doll whose spring had broken—quietly accusing her in death: Why didn’t you save me?

Her strength was gone. She collapsed to her knees. Shao Chuyan, why are you the only one still alive!?

The guests and priest went on with the final rites. Coffins were nailed shut, one by one. She sat limply on the ground, dizzy, unable to even rise for the formal bow of thanks. Her head burned, body shivering with cold. She turned, dazed, thinking of asking Uncle Pingzhang for help.

Then, suddenly, warm, steady hands lifted her arms from behind, half carrying her up—yet so careful, never crossing propriety. She leaned slightly against the man’s strong arm, catching the faint scent of tobacco. Tilting her head, she saw him: a man in his early thirties, tall, with a handsome face and long, narrow black eyes that carried an odd familiarity. She tried to murmur thanks, but only a rasping sound came, harsh as metal scraping glass.

Guests began laying white roses at the graves. Borrowing strength from the man behind her, she returned their bows one by one. At least, she thought, Zhao Longhua could not be denied his final dignity.

The man felt her trembling. Her thin arms burned with fever, her frail body quivering under the burden. He stood in silence, pretending not to notice the odd glances cast at them from the mourners.

At last, when all had left and the ceremony was over, Shao Chuyan exhaled a long breath. The last duty is done. Perhaps now I can lie down too… buy that empty plot beside Xiaoyuan, maybe?

Behind her, the man finally spoke: “Miss Shao, you’re running a high fever. Should I call a doctor?”

She coughed lightly. A doctor? Could a doctor bring the dead back? Her father, her mother, her brother—lying in this cold rain. Would they catch cold too? She shook her head, pulled away, rasped two hoarse words: “Thank you.”

The man’s face darkened. His thick brows knit into a川, his narrow phoenix eyes narrowing on her pale face. Rain slid down her hairline, drop by drop. He raised a hand to her forehead. Burning hot, yet she sweated with cold.

He fixed his gaze on her, speaking each word low and deliberate: “I’ve heard of the strange demise of your whole household. Miss Shao—do you mean to give up and let the dead remain unavenged?”

She froze. Her lifeless eyes flickered with sudden light, her pallid doll-like face twisting into something eerie, like a broken puppet flaring before its final collapse.

The man regretted his words immediately. He hadn’t meant to wound her—only to ignite some will to live.

In her mind, the past week reeled past: her father’s suicide broadcasted on international news after bankruptcy… returning home with her mother, only to hear of Zhao Zhongyuan’s kidnapping… his murder before ransom was paid… and her mother’s suicide in grief. All of it her fault. Her selfishness. Her insistence, twelve years ago, that she and her mother emigrate—stealing away her mother’s love from Xiaoyuan. And while the Zhao family fell into ruin, she had lived happily abroad, running an art gallery.

Clutching her head, she crouched down, wracked with pain.

The man watching her felt a weight in his chest. He had never met her before, yet her brows, her eyes carried a strange familiarity. And the name Shao Chuyan—he knew it well. Everyone here knew it. She was, after all, his betrothed since childhood.

As the guests began to disperse, Zhao Pingzhang busied himself seeing off the most powerful among them. The man crouched beside her with a sigh: “Miss Shao, everyone’s gone. Let me take you home, all right?”

She shook her head. No. She would stay here, with her family. Lifting her gaze, she meant to dismiss him—when her eyes fixed past his shoulder, frozen on the thicket a hundred meters away. She trembled all over, voice quavering as she asked, “Could you… lend me your car key, just for a moment?”

He was puzzled, but complied, pulling the Mercedes SUV key from his pocket, holding it out. “Here it is. What is it you want to see?”

She snatched it, bolting toward the black SUV parked fifty meters away. A moment ago she was trembling, weak as glass; now she moved with startling swiftness. In a blink she had the engine roaring, the car surging away.

He could have stopped her. But never imagined she would act so, and by the time he thought to, it was too late. Was she really trying to drive home on her own?

No—something was wrong. She still had a fever! Alarm spiked, and he rushed to Zhao Pingzhang: “President Zhao, Miss Shao just drove off in my car. Do you have another vehicle I can borrow?”

Seeing the man before him—one he had courted for years—Zhao Pingzhang immediately shoved his own keys forward, urgent, without even time for parting courtesies. Without a word of thanks, the man jumped in and sped after her.