The conversation that Friday afternoon was like a stone thrown into deep water. It stirred a brief ripple before quickly sinking into silence.
Zong Yi did not mention the medical reports or the lawyer documents to anyone, as if she had never seen them.
After work that day, she simply locked those papers into the lowest drawer of her office desk and threw the key into some corner she would never remember again.
The following Monday, the board announcement was released as scheduled. The wording was official and vague, stating that Yan Hanxie needed a short rest for "personal health reasons," and that Vice President Sun would temporarily act as president.
The atmosphere on the twenty-eighth floor froze subtly for a moment before being submerged again by an even more turbulent tide of work.
Vice President Sun was a cautious man who sought stability and avoided mistakes. During his temporary tenure, every decision appeared especially careful, even somewhat slow.
As a result, the "Spark Project," which Yan Hanxie had strongly pushed forward despite opposition, placed almost the entire burden of advancement on the shoulders of its actual leader, Zong Yi.
Zong Yi showed no unusual behavior.
She was even busier than before—meetings, negotiations, business trips, coordination—spinning nonstop like a whipped top.
She used the authorization letter Yan Hanxie left to its fullest extent, making decisive calls and pushing forward forcefully, almost burning herself to ensure that every part of "Spark" did not deviate from its intended track, even moving ahead of schedule.
Only occasionally, late at night when she checked the final data alone, or when she woke from chaotic dreams in the early hours of the morning, would she unconsciously touch the inside of her left wrist.
There was no heavy phantom sensation like in the hallucinations—only a cold emptiness.
She deliberately refused to think about where Yan Hanxie had gone.
A temple in the south?
A sanatorium abroad?
Or some other "quiet place."
Was that string of sandalwood prayer beads still on her wrist?
Had that damned "old problem" happened again?
She forcibly pressed those questions to the deepest layer of her consciousness, sealing them away with endless work.
She was like a precise machine operating beyond its limits, refusing any redundant thoughts that might cause malfunction.
Until a month later, on a gloomy evening heavy with the threat of rain.
Zong Yi had just returned from a project coordination meeting at a branch office in a neighboring city, covered in the dust of travel.
As her car drove into the underground garage, she received a call from Vice President Sun's assistant. The voice sounded slightly urgent.
"Director Zong, can you return to the company right now? President Sun has an urgent document here that needs your signature confirmation. It's the approval for the next phase budget of 'Spark.' Finance will lock the accounts early tomorrow morning, so the process must be completed tonight."
Zong Yi glanced at the time. It was seven-thirty in the evening.
She pressed her throbbing temple. Fatigue surged over her like a tide, only to be forcibly suppressed.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
She turned the car around and drove back toward the company.
The sky was oppressively dark, heavy clouds hanging low. The air carried the earthy smell unique to the moment before a storm, making the chest feel tight.
The twenty-eighth floor was brightly lit, with many colleagues working overtime.
But the area around the president's office seemed even more empty and quiet than usual.
The door to Yan Hanxie's office was tightly closed. The blinds were completely drawn. Inside it was pitch black, like a sealed cave no longer in use.
Zong Yi walked past without glancing sideways and went straight to Vice President Sun's office.
She signed the documents, had a brief discussion, and confirmed several details. When everything was finished, it was already almost eight-thirty.
She came out holding the signed documents and walked toward the elevator hall.
The corridor was very quiet. Only the sound of her own footsteps echoed.
When she passed the pantry, she stopped for no reason she could explain.
The pantry light was on. No one was inside.
The air still carried the sweet scent of instant coffee.
Her gaze involuntarily fell on a familiar spot—the place beside the coffee machine where Yan Hanxie's personal coffee grinder had once been placed.
Now the space was empty, leaving only a faint ring of dust.
Some corner of her heart felt as though it had been lightly pricked by an extremely fine needle.
She moved her gaze away and was about to continue walking when the corner of her eye caught something.
Inside the pantry, the small storage compartment used for temporarily storing cleaning tools seemed not to be fully closed. A narrow crack remained.
The compartment was usually filled with miscellaneous items and rarely noticed.
But through that crack, with the light from outside filtering in, Zong Yi saw a color that was different.
Dark brown.
Oily and smooth.
A circle…
Her breathing suddenly stopped.
Her steps felt as if they were pulled by invisible threads, walking toward it without control.
She extended her hand. Her fingertips trembled slightly as she gently pushed open the half-closed door.
Inside, the lighting was dim. Several unused folding chairs were stacked there, along with boxes of unopened printer paper and a few cardboard boxes whose contents were unclear.
And in the innermost corner, an open dusty box was filled messily with items that had clearly been forgotten or discarded: an old tablet with a cracked screen, several worn financial magazines, a dried-out aroma diffuser…
And—
A string of dark brown sandalwood prayer beads.
They lay there casually and alone on top of the miscellaneous items in the box.
One hundred and eight beads, still evenly polished and smooth, though in the dim light they looked dull.
The thread stringing them together seemed somewhat loose. The entire strand spread out limply, like a snake that had lost its life.
It felt as if Zong Yi's blood rushed to her head in an instant, then froze the next second.
She stood there, unable to move, staring fixedly at that string of beads.
Dust particles floated in the air, slowly drifting under the light, settling onto the string of beads and covering it with an even heavier layer of dull gray.
She recognized it.
The grain of every bead, that particular deep, somber color, even the thin string she had once personally torn apart and that had later been reconnected with a slightly different shade.
It was Yan Hanxie's.
She had… thrown it here?
Like throwing away an old object she no longer needed, perhaps even found bothersome?
Her heart began to crash wildly and chaotically inside her chest, striking her ribs until they hurt.
A cold feeling mixed with absurdity and sharp pain spread from her spine through every limb.
Wasn't she a believer in Buddhism?
Didn't she wear it wherever she went?
Didn't she use it to "stabilize" something, to "grasp" something?
Then why would she throw it into this dusty pile of clutter?
Just when she decided to go "rest," to go to a "quiet place"?
Did she feel she no longer needed it?
Or had she discarded it together with something she had once tried to grasp but finally admitted she could not hold onto?
That light sentence—"it doesn't matter anymore"—now carried a crushing weight as it slammed hard into Zong Yi's heart.
She could almost imagine Yan Hanxie before leaving—perhaps one late night, perhaps one early morning—walking alone into this pantry, expressionless, taking off the prayer beads from her wrist and tossing them into this box of discarded items without even looking.
Decisive. Cold. Leaving not the slightest room for hesitation.
Just like how she dealt with anything that had lost its value.
Zong Yi's fingertips dug deeply into her palm, the pain bringing a momentary clarity.
She should turn and leave.
This string of beads, along with its owner's destination and choices, were "none of her concern."
But her feet felt nailed to the ground.
As if possessed by some strange impulse, she reached out her hand. Her trembling fingers passed through the drifting dust and carefully picked up the prayer beads from the pile of miscellaneous items.
They were cold in her hand.
Heavy.
More real than the phantom sensation she remembered—and heavier.
A thin layer of dust covered the surface. She gently wiped one bead with the pad of her thumb, revealing the oiled wooden color beneath, still warm in texture, yet lifeless.
The thread was indeed loose. With a little force, it might break again.
Holding this abandoned string of beads, she stood in the dim storage compartment, hearing faint laughter and chatter from some department worker working overtime in the corridor outside.
She felt like a ghost who had wandered into the wrong time and place.
After a long while—perhaps only a few minutes, perhaps as long as a century—
She slowly clenched the beads tightly in her palm.
The cold wooden beads pressed into her skin, bringing a clear sting of pain.
Then she turned and walked out of the pantry.
She did not return to her office, but went straight toward the elevator.
The elevator descended, the numbers jumping.
She gripped the beads tightly, as though holding something fragile yet burning.
The car drove back into the night.
The sky could no longer hold back. Large raindrops began to fall, pounding against the windshield with loud crackling sounds, soon forming a violent curtain of water.
The wipers were turned to their highest speed, yet they could only barely maintain a small blurred patch of visibility ahead.
Zong Yi drove very slowly.
Inside the car it was deathly silent, except for the rain and the engine.
On the passenger seat, the prayer beads she had picked up from the dust lay quietly there, occasionally catching a fleeting, faint glimmer from passing headlights.
She did not know why she had picked it up.
It was meaningless. Even somewhat ridiculous.
Just like how it had been meaningless for Yan Hanxie to wear them.
A believer in Buddhism threw away a consecrated ritual object like trash.
Someone who did not believe in Buddhism picked up the discarded trash.
Rain lashed wildly against the windows, distorting the outside world into flowing patches of blurred color.
Zong Yi's vision grew slightly hazy—whether from the rain or something else, she did not know.
Suddenly she remembered the sentence Yan Hanxie had spoken under the last sunlight in her office:
"Wearing this, chanting scriptures, it feels like I can grasp something… stabilize something… but you've seen it too. It can't even stabilize my own body."
So she gave it up.
Together with the futile attempt to grasp something that ultimately failed, together with the peace she had sought but never obtained.
Then what did it mean for her to be holding this abandoned string of beads now?
A delayed anger with nowhere to go?
A resentment from being dragged into something only to be abruptly cast aside?
Or something more complicated and obscure that even she herself could not untangle?
The car slowly stopped in the heavy rain beneath her apartment building.
The downpour showed no sign of weakening.
Zong Yi did not get out immediately.
She sat in the driver's seat, looking at the quiet, dust-stained prayer beads on the passenger seat.
Then she reached out and picked them up again.
This time she did not clench them tightly—she simply held them lightly.
Her fingers unconsciously brushed across the cold wooden beads one by one.
The alternating rough and smooth sensations traveled from her fingertips to some hollow place deep inside her heart.
She sat there for a long time.
Until even the sound of the rain outside the car seemed distant.
Then she released her hand and carefully placed the prayer beads into her coat pocket.
She pushed open the door and rushed into the torrential rain.
The rain soaked her instantly, icy cold.
Yet she seemed unable to feel it and only hurried into the building.
The elevator rose upward. The mirrored wall reflected her disheveled appearance: hair soaked and clinging to her cheeks, face pale, but her eyes frighteningly bright.
Back in her apartment, she locked the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
Her soaked coat hung heavily on her body.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and took out the prayer beads.
Water droplets ran down from her fingertips, dampening the beads.
She walked to the living room and examined them carefully under the light.
The dust had spread under the rainwater, leaving mottled marks on the dark brown wood.
The thread was indeed badly loosened. Several beads were already close to falling off.
Zong Yi found a soft dry cloth, sat down, and began wiping the beads one by one with extreme care.
Wiping away the dust.
Wiping away the rain.
Wiping away every trace of abandonment.
Her movements were slow and gentle, carrying a nearly reverent concentration she herself did not notice.
Outside the window the storm still poured down, thunder rolling in the distance.
And she, in the quiet bright room, wiped a string of abandoned prayer beads that belonged to another woman—perhaps beads that had long since "lost their power."
Until every bead regained its original smooth sheen, reflecting a calm, restrained glow under the light.
Then she found a sturdy silk thread of a similar color and, under the lamp, began restringing the beads.
One bead, then another.
At some point, the rain outside gradually began to lessen.
—
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