The extra string of prayer beads on her wrist—one that did not belong to her—at first felt like wearing a tangible shackle. Every slight movement clearly reminded her of its presence and the heavy origin behind it.
Zong Yi could even smell the extremely faint fragrance from the sandalwood beads, as if it had seeped deep into the wood grain. Mixed with the warmth of her own skin, it formed a strange, intimate scent lingering at the tip of her nose that refused to disperse.
However, the storm surrounding the 'Spark Project' did not stop because of one successful counterattack. Instead, as interests were redistributed, it entered an even more intense stalemate.
The opponents' smears moved from the front stage to the shadows—paid trolls, smear articles, poaching employees, malicious bidding… endless methods emerged one after another.
Inside the company, although Vice President Sun no longer dared to openly obstruct things, that attitude of watching from the opposite shore, ready to wash his hands of everything at any moment, made cross-department cooperation extremely difficult.
Zong Yi's time was cut into even smaller fragments, like a high-speed spinning top, rushing about in exhaustion among countless meetings, negotiations, emails, and sudden emergencies.
She slept less and less. Sometimes she would close her eyes on the office sofa for twenty minutes, and that counted as rest.
Caffeine had almost lost its effect; she could only rely on sheer willpower to keep going.
Strangely, amid that near-limit exhaustion, the sense of the Buddhist beads on her wrist gradually blurred.
They were no longer a jarring foreign object. Instead they slowly blended into part of the rhythm of her body, like a second layer of skin, like a watch on the wrist that would never fall off.
Only when she was extremely tired and her fingertips brushed her wrist unconsciously, or during the pause between some fierce argument, when her wrist pressed against the cold tabletop and the wooden beads knocked against the bone, sending a clear dull pain, would she suddenly realize—oh, they were still here.
She no longer thought about why they were here, nor did she try to probe Yan Hanxie's feelings when she discarded them, and she was even less willing to examine her own absurd motive for putting them back on.
They were simply there, silently pressed against her pulse, rising and falling ever so slightly with the rhythm of her heartbeat.
Sometimes late at night, when she drove alone through the empty city streets, while waiting at a red light she would lower her head and glance at them.
The light inside the car was dim. The beads sank in the shadows, only a vague dark outline.
Then the green light would turn on, she would step on the accelerator, and her attention would return to the winding road ahead.
After that early-morning phone call, the southern number once again fell silent.
Yan Hanxie did not send even a single word afterward, as if that night's brief murmured concern and reminder, carrying the dampness of sea wind, had only been a hallucination brought on by excessive fatigue. Zong Yi also did not try to contact her.
Between them, it seemed that only the cold shared coordinate of "Spark" remained, along with the signed letter of authorization.
Until the sixty-seventh day after Yan Hanxie left.
It was another night of working overtime until after midnight.
Zong Yi had just finished a meeting with the public relations team regarding a new round of public opinion monitoring. Her head was splitting with pain.
She declined the late-night meal her assistant had ordered and returned to the office alone, wanting five minutes of absolute silence.
She turned off the main lights, leaving only a reading lamp at the corner of the desk.
The dim yellow halo covered the mountain of documents on the desk and the laptop with its screen still glowing.
She slumped in the chair, closed her dry eyes, and pressed her fingers hard against her throbbing temples.
In the silence, the string of Buddhist beads on her wrist seemed to become particularly clear.
She could feel the contour of each bead, feel them rising and falling slightly with her breathing, feel the thread she had restrung pulled a bit tight, pressing against her skin and leaving a faint but lasting indentation.
Just when fatigue and silence were about to swallow her completely, the private phone on the desk vibrated.
Not a call. A text message.
From that southern number.
The light of the screen was glaring in the darkness.
She opened her eyes and stared at the glowing screen for several seconds before reaching out to pick up the phone.
There was only one sentence, no greeting, no signature:
[If you can't hold on, you can stop. I won't blame you.]
Zong Yi's breathing stopped at that instant.
The blood seemed to rush to the top of her head, then recede the next second, leaving her limbs cold and numb.
She stared fixedly at that line of text. Every stroke looked like a red-hot branding iron burned onto her retina.
Can't hold on?
Stop?
Won't blame you?
What did that mean?
A test?
Pity?
Or… another retreat and another "regret"?
She remembered Yan Hanxie's pale face, her unfocused eyes, her trembling hands, the Buddhist beads abandoned in the storage room, and that airy sentence: "It doesn't matter anymore."
A cold, sharp anger mixed with days of accumulated exhaustion, pressure, and some deeper grievance, erupting like volcanic lava and crashing through the dam of reason.
She suddenly sat up straight. Her fingers trembled with force, nearly crushing the phone.
She typed rapidly. The sound of her fingertips striking the screen was unusually crisp and urgent in the silence.
[President Yan must be joking. The authorization letter is in my hands. 'Spark' is my responsibility. Whether it stops or not is not for you to decide, nor is there any need for you to 'blame' or not blame me.]
Send.
Not enough.
Far from enough.
The lava in her chest was still boiling, burning her eyes hot.
She continued typing. Every word burst out like shards of ice squeezed through clenched teeth:
[Since you chose a 'quiet place,' then you should take proper 'rest.'
The company's matters and the project's troubles do not require your concern.
After all, the body is your own. Don't you think so?]
Send.
Two paragraphs, like two poisoned arrows, shot through the air toward that unknown place in the south, where in her imagination the waves were still striking the rocks.
After sending them, she felt as if all strength had been drained from her. She collapsed back against the chair, breathing heavily.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, hammering until her ears rang.
The phone screen went dark. The office sank back into dimness and dead silence.
Only her rough breathing echoed in the emptiness.
What was she doing?
Had she gone mad?
That was Yan Hanxie.
Her superior, the person who had given her opportunity and a platform, and a… seriously ill patient who was currently "recuperating."
But those words could not be taken back.
She closed her eyes and waited.
Waiting for possible fury, or more likely, long cold silence, and the truly complete severing that might follow.
Time passed second by second, like a dull knife cutting flesh.
The phone did not light up again.
One minute, five minutes, ten minutes…
Just when Zong Yi thought there would be no response, when that violent anger had gradually been covered by deeper regret and coldness, the phone screen faintly lit again.
Not a message. A call.
The same number.
Zong Yi's heart suddenly contracted. She stared at the flashing light as if staring at a venomous snake flicking its tongue.
The ringtone rang stubbornly, piercing in the silence.
She took a deep breath, pressed the answer button, and lifted the phone to her ear.
She did not speak immediately.
On the other end, there was no sound either.
Only a faint, suppressed sound, as if someone were desperately restraining something, transmitted through the signal.
It was not crying. It was more like the broken breath that spills out from deep in the throat when extreme exhaustion or pain is suppressed to the limit.
After several seconds, Yan Hanxie's voice sounded. It was hoarse beyond recognition. Every word was like sandpaper scraping across her throat, carrying an undisguised tremor.
"…I'm sorry."
Only three words.
Zong Yi froze.
All the anger, accusation, and cold mockery suddenly became pale and powerless in front of those three hoarse broken words, choking in her throat, unable to come out or be swallowed.
"I shouldn't have said that…" Yan Hanxie's voice was intermittent. Her breathing was very unstable, as if saying those few words had already exhausted all her strength. "I just… just saw those news reports… saw you… I…"
She stopped. Only hurried and difficult breathing came through the receiver, striking heavily against Zong Yi's eardrums.
Zong Yi held the phone. Her fingertips were cold.
She could imagine Yan Hanxie on the other end of the call at that moment—perhaps alone in some terrifyingly quiet room, facing her phone, fragile beyond endurance because of illness, emotion, and everything that could not be spoken.
"I'm fine," Zong Yi heard her own dry voice say. Her tone was stiff, but no longer sharp. "'Spark' is fine too. We can handle it."
On the other end, Yan Hanxie's breathing seemed to ease slightly, but it was still heavy.
Another long silence followed.
This time the silence no longer contained confrontation or coldness. It only carried a heavy suffocating exhaustion, and some sticky, indescribable thing that wound the two of them together across the distant space.
"That string of beads…" Yan Hanxie suddenly spoke again. Her voice was still low and hoarse. "Do you… still have it?"
Zong Yi's heart slammed violently.
She subconsciously raised her left hand. The Buddhist beads on her wrist swayed gently with the movement. The wooden beads collided, making a very faint dull sound.
On the other end of the phone, Yan Hanxie seemed to hear that tiny sound as well.
Her breathing paused almost imperceptibly.
"I picked it back up," Zong Yi did not deny it. Her voice was calm and flat. "It would be a pity to leave it in the storage room."
Yan Hanxie was silent for a long time. So long that Zong Yi thought she would not respond.
"…Yes," she finally said, her voice light like a sigh. "It would be a pity."
Then she seemed to laugh softly. The laugh was brief, carrying a thick nasal tone and lingering exhaustion.
"Wear it. Maybe… it's more useful with you than with me."
After saying that sentence, she seemed to have used up the last trace of her strength.
"I'm tired," she said. "You… should rest earlier too."
"Mm." Zong Yi responded.
The call ended.
The busy tone sounded again.
Zong Yi slowly lowered the phone. Her arm felt heavy as if filled with lead. She lowered her head and looked at the Buddhist beads on her wrist.
Under the dim yellow light, the dark brown wood flowed with a deep, warm glow.
With her finger, she gently turned one bead.
The bead rotated, carrying her body warmth.
Yan Hanxie's hoarse apology in the call just now, her broken breathing, and that sentence "Wear it, maybe it's more useful with you than with me"… were like countless tiny hooks tugging not too heavily yet not lightly at the softest place in her heart.
She suddenly felt that this string of beads was heavier than ever before.
Or perhaps the thing that had always been heavy was never the beads themselves.
She raised her other hand, covering the Buddhist beads on her wrist, and clenched them tightly.
The cold wooden beads pressed against her palm, bringing a clear sensation of pain.
Outside the window, the city was still brightly lit. Who knew how many people, in such deep nights, were also facing their own chaos alone.
And she, wearing the Buddhist beads abandoned by another woman, sat in the silent office, listening to her own clear heartbeat, and to that distant busy tone that seemed as if it would never stop.
—
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