The hallway outside the correctional facility's visitor room was sterile and gray. It reeked of disinfectant, like it was trying to scrub away the stench of lost time. Ji Yanluo stood there for the third time in two weeks, his hands in the pockets of his tailored coat, his face impassive to anyone watching—but inside, it was a different story.
"Mr. Ji," the officer at the reception desk said again, voice tinged with awkwardness, "She declined your request."
Again.
Ji Yanluo nodded once, curt. "I understand."
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
The first time, he thought it was pride. The second, anger. But now?
It felt colder than either.
Bai Zhiqi wasn't just refusing to see him. She was erasing him.
And maybe he deserved it.
He turned away from the desk, footsteps echoing through the empty corridor as he left. The cold wind outside bit at his skin as he reached the car. Han Su opened the door silently from the driver's seat, glancing at him through the rearview mirror but asking nothing.
Ji Yanluo sat, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the pale morning light bleeding over the city skyline.
"She won't see me," he said finally.
Han Su stayed quiet, the silence saying more than words could.
He didn't blame her. That was the bitter part.
He'd watched her trial in silence. Watched her be torn apart by people who once clapped for her music and called her a genius. He'd thought silence was the safest option—neutral, reserved.
But now, it had become cowardice.
And it had cost him everything.
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a cream-colored envelope—unopened, edges slightly worn. Inside was a letter. Short, precise. Written by his hand.
Not an apology.
But a beginning.
He stared at the envelope for a long while before finally speaking. "Turn back."
Han Su raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "To the facility?"
A single nod.
This time, he didn't ask to see her.
This time, he walked to the reception, and quietly handed the envelope to the same officer who had turned him away.
"Please," Ji Yanluo said, his voice quiet but unshakable, "Give this to her."
The officer hesitated. "She might not—"
"She'll throw it away, maybe," Ji Yanluo replied. "But I still want her to have it."
The officer nodded slowly and took it. Ji Yanluo didn't linger this time. He left without looking back.
Inside the envelope, the letter read:
*Zhiqi,*
*I don't have the right to ask for your forgiveness. But I have the obligation to tell you the truth I never said.*
*I believed you.*
*I saw the fear in your eyes that day—not guilt. And I should've stood beside you. I didn't. I won't make excuses. I chose silence when I should've chosen you.*
*If I have to wait five years, ten years—or longer—I will. But until then, live, Zhiqi. Survive this.*
*You still have your music. That's something no one can take from you.*
*—Ji Yanluo*
He never received a reply.
Not even a returned envelope.
But five years later, when he appeared in front of her door and she opened it without pushing him away or questioning him. He knew
She read it.
She lived.
And now, it was his turn to face the storm for her