Chapter 15: The Crabapple Tree and a Thousand Paper Cranes

In the days after the funeral, Chen Jingming, against my protests, insisted on sneaking out of the hospital. His fever had broken, but his face was still pale, the skin around the needle mark on the back of his hand mottled with bruises. He kept quietly by my side, helping me pack up Grandma's belongings, clumsily attempting to cook me some porridge; most of the time he simply sat beside me in silence, watching me with eyes still tinged with illness and brimming with worry.

"Go back to the hospital." I looked at his bloodless face, my voice hoarse but firm. "You're not recovered yet."

"I'm fine, really!" He straightened up at once, doing his best to look energetic—but the shadows under his eyes and his faint cough betrayed him.

"Go back." I repeated, leaving no room for argument. "I can't watch anyone else collapse."

He looked at me, lips parting, and finally conceded, the light in his eyes dimming. "...All right then. Nian-Nian, take care of yourself. Wait for me... I'll be back soon." He left the little apartment looking back at every step.

Two days later he declared himself recovered and came hurrying back. This time he really did look better, some color returned to his cheeks. But when I saw that lingering fatigue and worry at the bottom of his eyes, I knew his "recovery" was nothing but forced spirit.

He sat with me in silence in the dim little room, watching the sun rise and set beyond the window. I still held Grandma's urn, like a statue with its soul gone out, staring blankly at the objects crowded with memory, replaying every small moment with her over and over in my head.

Chen Jingming no longer tried to coax me to eat or talk. He simply stayed, quietly, passing me tissues whenever I broke down crying, covering the back of my cold hand with his warm palm.

And so, in that dead-still grief, more than another week went by. The plant on the windowsill, untended, began to yellow and wilt.

That afternoon, Chen Jingming didn't sit quietly as usual. He stood, walked over to me, crouched down to meet my eyes—his gaze carrying a resolve I had never seen in him, a force that would not be refused.

"Nian-Nian," he said, low and clear, "Get up. Come somewhere with me."

I looked at him blankly, no reaction at all.

He said nothing more—just reached out, his warm hand closing around my cold wrist, and with a force that allowed no argument, pulled me up from the sofa. The gesture wasn't gentle—almost rough—yet it carried the determination of something breaking through ice.

Like a puppet on strings, I was half-led, half-hauled out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into a taxi he had apparently summoned at some point.

The car cut through the city's noisy streets toward the outskirts. The scenery outside grew more and more familiar—it was the field outside town where we had taken Grandma during summer break, when wildflowers covered the hills and Grandma smiled so happily at all that blossom.

The car stopped beside an open patch of ground. At its edge, near the little grove, a newly planted sapling now stood where none had been before.

A crabapple tree, slender branches swaying in the breeze, young green leaves glowing softly in the afternoon sun. What caught the eye most: on its small, not-yet-unfurled twigs, countless long red ribbons had been tied! Like hundreds of living butterflies, they danced and fluttered in the wind.

On every ribbon, in black marker, words were written in clear, careful strokes.

That wobbly handwriting—I recognized it at a glance as someone imitating Grandma's hand. As for who: it needed no saying.

"Nian-Nian, eat on time. Don't go hungry."

"Nian-Nian, add clothes when it's cold. Don't catch a chill."

"Nian-Nian, study hard. Don't wear yourself out."

"Nian-Nian, Grandma's little darling, be happy every single day."

"Nian-Nian..."

Countless ribbons, countless reminders—every one a thing Grandma used to say! Words I had once dismissed as nagging and now held like treasure!

Chen Jingming stood beside the crabapple tree, wind stirring the hair over his forehead. He turned to look at me, eyes so tender they seemed about to overflow, and his voice carried a strength that cut straight through the grief:

"Nian-Nian, I know you can't let go of Grandma. I know how much you miss her." He paused, gaze sweeping over the ribbons dancing in the wind, voice trembling slightly. "Grandma can't let go of you either. What she worried about most was you."

He drew a deep breath, and his gaze came back to my face with an almost solemn reverence:

"Grandma may have left us now... but she will be somewhere else, up in the sky, quietly watching over you, staying with you, blessing you. Just like this crabapple tree..." He lifted a hand and gently touched the young trunk. "It will put down roots here, and grow, blooming year after year, bearing fruit year after year... It will always be here—in Grandma's place, staying with you."

He stepped closer and, from behind his back, produced like a conjurer an enormous, extraordinary "bouquet."

It was not made of flowers, but of countless paper cranes in every color and shape! Red ones, blue ones, green ones, yellow ones... each folded with exquisite care, wings half spread, as if they would take to the wind at any moment. Hundreds upon hundreds of paper cranes crowding together like a brilliant sunset cloud!

He held out that heavy "bouquet," dense with all that unspoken care, and offered it to me. His fingers had gone white from gripping it, but his eyes were astonishingly bright.

"From now on, through all the years to come, I, Chen Jingming, will stay with Lin Nian. I will stay with Lin Nian, always and always."

His voice wasn't loud, but every word rang clear, searing itself into my heart like a brand.

"Whatever happens, wherever we are—I'm here."

"Nian-Nian, you're not alone. You have me."

"I'll take Grandma's place. I'll take care of you, protect you, give you a home."

"I, Chen Jingming, keep my word!"