The study room in the old Liverpool mansion was steeped in the scent of aged wood and time. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the heavy curtains, casting sharp geometric shadows across the thick carpet. Ryan had finally fallen into a deep sleep on the sofa under the influence of painkillers, his brows still furrowed faintly from pain and medication. The usual sharpness in his features was softened, replaced by a rare, fragile vulnerability.
Emily gently pulled a thin blanket over him, her fingers brushing away the stray strands of hair on his forehead—so lightly, as if afraid to disturb a dream made of glass.
But Lucas's lingering glance before leaving and those three simple words—"Qingxi Town"—still pricked at her heart like a sliver of glass. The secret of blood ties hovered above her and Ryan like a time bomb, threatening to detonate the fragile balance they had just begun to rebuild.
She needed more answers—about Lin Yue, about the aunt she'd never met (Lin Yue's mother), and about whether the shadows behind all this had truly been dispelled with Kai's arrest, or merely been momentarily quieted.
Silently, she left the living room and turned toward the end of the hallway, where Ryan's private study sat behind a closed door. A thought began to take root: perhaps, behind that door, lay the missing pieces of truth. It wasn't that she wished to pry into Ryan's privacy—but in a relationship built on wounds and half-truths, she needed something solid, something to anchor herself.
The door wasn't locked.
She stepped inside. The scent of old books and faint cedar hit her first. A massive mahogany desk stood by the window, beyond which stretched a quiet garden. Her eyes swept over rows of architectural tomes and professional journals until they landed on something far more unassuming—a brass-locked drawer at the bottom of a bookshelf.
She crouched, her fingers trailing the cold surface of the aged brass. She wasn't a locksmith, but a nearly invisible scratch along the edge of the lock caught her attention. Acting on instinct, she took a hairpin from her pocket and gently probed along the groove.
Click.
The lock gave way with a soft snap
Inside the drawer, there were no valuables—just a few scattered photographs, several thick sketchbooks, and a hardbound notebook wrapped in dark blue velvet.
Emily gently lifted the notebook. The velvet felt cold and strangely soft beneath her fingers. She untied the ribbon and opened the cover.
A single line of Chinese calligraphy greeted her on the first page, written in a delicate yet forceful hand:
"My architecture, my prison, my light and shadow. — Lin Yue, Manchester."
It was a diary.
Emily's fingers trembled slightly. She shot a glance toward the door to ensure no one was nearby, then moved closer to the window and began to read by the sunlight.
The entries spanned a long period, starting from Lin Yue's early days in the UK—her excitement, the pressure of studies, the sparks of design inspiration, and her dreams for the future. The tone was passionate, vibrant, full of youthful ambition and a touch of idealistic stubbornness.
But the entries soon turned darker, heavy with dread. The timeline pointed to when Kai had begun to steal her work.
[Date Unknown] — Rainy
Today I signed an official cooperation agreement with Kai Williams. He's taken a keen interest in my community center concept, which blends Suzhou garden aesthetics with modern urban needs. He promised to push it toward the RIBA awards using his resources.I'm excited… but uneasy. Does he truly understand Eastern spatial philosophy, or is he just milking the "exotic aesthetic" for market appeal? Still, this is a rare opportunity. For my dream—it's worth the risk.
[Date Unknown] — Sunny
The nightmare begins. Kai took all my core sketches and structural drafts, saying he needed to consolidate them under his "master plan." I tried attending his design meetings, but his assistant blocked me. He's ignoring my calls and emails.Anxiety is wrapping around me like a vine.
[Date Unknown] — Overcast
At a networking event, I saw the final presentation. He named it "Glass Forest."It was my design—down to the sequence of space, concept of inward breathing courtyards, everything. He only replaced the flying eaves and water features with steel twists and mirrored pools. It's a bastardized, hollow monster, flashy but soulless.I confronted him on the spot, but he laughed and said, "Look, our little Eastern collaborator is letting her imagination run wild again."Humiliation. Fury. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.(At this point, the handwriting was smudged—like tears had blurred the ink.)
[Date Unknown] — Thunderstorm
He sent a hush-money check and a lawyer's letter, warning me: stay silent or I'll be blacklisted from the UK architecture scene—and my family back home will suffer.He found out about my mother in Qingxi Town! The bastard!(The words "Qingxi Town" were crossed out violently, over and over.)Ryan Li contacted me today. Said he used to date Kai. He wants to help me gather evidence to sue him.Could this be a thread of light in the dark?But… can I trust a stranger?
[Three Days Before Death] — Unknown Date
We've almost gathered all the evidence.Ryan… he's more dependable than I expected. He found indirect proof that Kai had plagiarized another student years ago. He even contacted a journalist willing to testify.Tomorrow, we'll deliver the materials to Dr. Adams for safekeeping and move forward with legal proceedings.The fear still clings to me. I still dream of Kai's cold gray-blue eyes. But this time… I won't back down.For my designs.For my dignity.To prove to these powerful predators:We are not prey.Mother, protect me.(This last line was written with such force it etched into the paper.)
The diary ended there.
Emily slowly closed the velvet cover, her chest heaving as though she'd just weathered a silent storm. Fury. Grief. Respect. The emotions twisted together in her throat, making it hard to breathe.
The raw detail of Kai's theft, the blackmail, and the psychological manipulation struck far deeper than anything she had previously heard. But even more powerful was Lin Yue's voice—unyielding, trembling, and burning with integrity.
And in those entries, Ryan's involvement was clear: he had reached out when Lin Yue was drowning, and tried to pull her back. His efforts to gather proof, to fight for her in secret—these were not lies.
Emily looked down—and noticed something else in the drawer. A familiar-looking leather notebook lay beneath a stack of papers, its cover embossed with a sketch of Oxford's Bridge of Sighs.
She blinked.That was her notebook—the one she had used for class notes and architectural sketches. She must've left it in the living room days ago.
But when she opened it, it wasn't her handwriting inside.
But when she opened it, it wasn't her own handwriting inside.
Instead, page after page was filled with Ryan's bold, slanted English script.
September 15th – SunnyEmily was sketching in the garden today. The sunlight landed on her lashes like golden butterflies.She drew the side of the old chimney—an unusual angle, but somehow she made it come alive.She said buildings breathe, and chimneys are the lungs of a home.My heart skipped a beat.
September 22nd – RainyShe stayed up late building her model, fell asleep on the couch in the study.I wanted to cover her with the blanket, but my hand stopped an inch from her hair.I was afraid to wake her.Afraid to wake something in myself.
October 3rd – OvercastShe mentioned being afraid of the dark as a child. Didn't say much.Later that night, I saw a small hallway lamp left on outside my bedroom door—warm yellow glow.She didn't say anything, just left it there.Her silence warms more than most people's words.
TodayShe left her coffee mug behind again.I kept it.There's a faint trace of lipstick on the rim.I'm a pathetic thief, hoarding pieces of her.
Emily's breath caught. Her fingertips hovered over the ink, now dry and permanent. Each entry trembled with restraint and longing, heartbreakingly sincere and disarmingly awkward.
And then, at the very bottom of the page—an entry dated just yesterday:
October 10thLin Yue... I'm sorry.I once thought chasing after a familiar face would fill the hole you left.But I was wrong.What I found wasn't a reflection.It was something new.Something bright and alive.Emily isn't a shadow.She's the light.And I—I don't know if I deserve it, but I love her.
Emily stood frozen, clutching the notebook. Her hands were cold, but her cheeks burned.The icy shock of Lin Yue's journal was still fresh in her bones, yet now it was layered with the searing warmth of this fragile, fumbling devotion.
Ryan hadn't seen her as a replacement.He had struggled, yes—against guilt, against grief—but somewhere along the way, he had begun to see her clearly. To love her not as an echo of the past, but as herself.
Just as her own bitterness had begun to thaw…Her eyes welled up.
Just then, a voice broke the silence behind her—low and hoarse, with a trace of nervousness:
"What are you reading?"
Emily whipped around. Ryan was leaning against the doorway, still in his loose pajamas. His bandaged arm hung by his side, his usually neat hair tousled from sleep. But it was his expression that startled her most—composed on the surface, but pale and raw underneath.
His amber eyes were locked on the notebook in her hands.His face drained of color.He looked… terrified.
"I…" Emily began, her voice faltering.
Ryan took a halting step forward, the effort making him sway slightly.
"You saw it," he said, not as a question, but a quiet admission.His voice cracked. "It's pathetic, isn't it? Writing down your smile like some obsessed stalker. I must look deranged…"
"No."
Emily's voice was firmer than she expected. She stood up, holding both notebooks—the pain of Lin Yue's journal and the vulnerability of Ryan's notes—like fire and ice in her hands.
"I saw Lin Yue's truth. And I saw yours."She raised his notebook. "Why?"
Ryan swallowed hard. He looked away, shame flushing across his face.
"Because… I couldn't help it. I kept telling myself this was temporary. That I didn't deserve you. But you kept leaving traces—light, warmth, life. And I—I didn't want to forget any of it."He looked up, eyes shining with something halfway between sorrow and hope."I didn't want to lose the only light I've ever known."
Emily's heart clenched.
He took a breath, steadied himself.
"Yes, everything about Lin Yue's tragedy is real. My guilt. My failure to save her. But this—" he tapped the notebook in her hands, "—this is real too. It's not about replacing anyone. It's about you. Only you."
The words fell into the silence like a match in dry leaves.
Emily stood motionless, eyes locked with his. Her defenses, built high on distrust and hurt, began to splinter.
Without speaking, she turned toward the fireplace. With one last breath, she opened the velvet-covered journal and tossed Lin Yue's diary into the embers.
The fire caught quickly.Crackling flames curled around the paper, consuming ink and pain and memory.
Ryan gasped. "What are you—?"
She turned back to him, her eyes blazing.
"Justice will be served. Through the law. Not through ghosts."She stepped closer, voice unwavering."Her shadow doesn't belong in our story. No one's past does. We decide what our future looks like."
Ryan stared at her, awe-struck. He stepped forward, slowly, and lifted a hand as if to brush something from her face—but hesitated.
Emily didn't move.
His fingertips brushed her cheek.
She didn't flinch.
Their faces were inches apart, breaths mingling in the fire-warmed air.Just as Ryan began to lean in—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway.
"Ryan. Emily."It was Lucas. His voice was urgent, grim."Come out. Now. Something's happened."
The moment shattered like glass.
Emily jerked back, blushing. Ryan's hand dropped.But the look they exchanged held no awkwardness—only mutual dread.
Because whatever truth they'd just shared, it was clear that something else—something darker—was coming.