1、Spiral ...
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Neutrinos spiral in the accelerator 700 meters underground, hoping to leave a final statement in the hearts of those left behind.
22:24, April 23, 208M. ICU waiting room, City Hospital.
"What's his condition?"I stood in the hallway, questioning the doctor. Inside the ICU was my husband, lawyer He Feng.
"Initial assessment indicates widespread cancerous lesions, primarily concentrated in the digestive tract."
I glanced at Lawyer Yao beside me. He sighed. "Lawyer He was harmed by his own client. The client was a life sciences researcher whose work was stolen, driving him to madness. Lawyer He tried to extract more information from him, but during the interrogation, he triggered the client’s PTSD. The client force-fed him half a liter of an unknown liquid..."
"If it's a contagious or radioactive bio-chemical weapon, feel free to dispose of the victim to prevent further harm," I said firmly to the doctor.
The doctor froze. "Don’t worry, it's just carcinogens like nitrosamines or aflatoxins—non-contagious and non-radioactive. But treatment will be difficult. You’ll need to cover the deposit."
I paid it. "I respect the patient’s wishes. If he wakes up and finds the treatment too painful, I accept his decision to stop it."I paused， "Then I’ll take him home and accompany him through his final days."
I turned to leave, but Lawyer Yao grabbed my arm. "Mrs. He, where are you going?"
"My daughter is home alone. A ten-year-old shouldn’t be by herself."I frowned slightly. "Please stay here with He Feng for now."
Lawyer Yao gritted his teeth. "Actually... Lawyer He registered you as a legal-literary worker with the firm. If anything happens to him, you’re qualified to take over his assistant duties."
I twitched my lips. "And if I refuse? Legal-literary worker... I’m just a crime fiction writer."
"You have a bachelor's in law—you’re capable." Lawyer Yao pulled up the registration form He Feng had filed. "Lawyer He has many ongoing cases, and the latest deadline is 6:00 AM on April 25. Missing it would incur massive penalties. Under joint marital property laws, your accounts could be frozen."
A simmering hatred rose in me. The last time He Feng had done this—using laws and systems to force my compliance—was when he’d blackmailed me into marrying him.
"What about He Le?"That was our daughter’s name. "She’s at He Feng’s place."
"I’ll pick her up for school tomorrow. I’ve worked with Lawyer He for over a decade. My wife can stay with Lele tonight. I’ll wait here for Lawyer He."
"Then I’ll leave it to you." With that, I rushed to the law firm to work overtime.
My name is Gao Qingliu, 36 years old. Married for eight years, yet my "husband" and I remain strangers. This marriage began with his legal coercion.
Eight years ago, I received the obituary of my best friend, MengShourong, and traveled far to attend her funeral. He Feng was there too—he was Shourong’s husband. As the crowd thinned, only the two of us remained in the mourning hall. I knelt before the altar, weeping, when suddenly, something cold and sharp pressed against the back of my neck.
"Mr. He? You—"
"You’re Gao Qingliu, 28, a web novelist with no stable job, unmarried, Shourong’s middle school roommate, correct?" His voice was icy.
"So?"I said. "We were roommates in high school too. We never lost touch in sixteen years."
He Feng’s cold laugh came from behind me. "You finished your novel 'The Cliff’s Edge' on May N, 207N. The protagonist, Zhou Qi’an, dies in the line of duty at the exact same location and under the same circumstances as Police Superintendent Meng Shourong." He threw a folder in front of me. "Your novel concluded the day before her death. Our firm has reason to believe you illegally obtained confidential police information."
"She told me about it herself over the phone! She loved 'The Cliff's Edge' and thought I’d written the protagonist like her. She asked me to write Zhou Qi’an’s sacrifice—she even suggested the details! Where’s her storage card? The data can be retrieved. That call was less than seven days ago—it’s still recoverable." I struggled to reason with him.
"How unfortunate,"He Feng shook his head. "Her storage card was destroyed in her last mission. We have ample grounds to accuse you of exploiting a police officer’s experiences for profit." He set down the "weapon"—it was the army knife Shourong had used before transferring to the police. "Ms. Gao, someone like you, who relies on writing for a living, wouldn’t want your work defamed, would you? Only if I don’t sue will you avoid that risk."
"What do you want?"
"Marry me. The rest can be negotiated."
"Marriage?" I was stunned. "Why?"
"Shourong’s daughter, He Le, is only two. She needs care. First, you’re the only 'idle' person in Shourong’s contacts—no work ties, so you knew her habits best. Second, Shourong trusted you. Third, you can compensate for my lack of parenting time due to work." He paused. "Under Civil Code Article 27, guardianship priority goes to joint guardians. Marriage is the fastest way to establish legal guardianship while ensuring Lele’s living and educational needs aren’t interfered with."
I agreed to raise Shourong’s daughter but emphasized in the prenup that I refused marital obligations. I rented another apartment in the city at my own expense, living there with Lele. He Feng came for dinner every night, exchanged a few words, and otherwise, we avoided each other. During holidays, we pretended to be a happy family in front of his father and my parents. On Shourong’s death anniversary and Qingming, we visited her grave together.
Five years passed like this. Every day, I drowned in guilt and regret—hating myself for writing a prophecy, blaming myself for missing the tremor in Shourong’s voice when she described the protagonist’s death. She’d been five months pregnant when she died, yet she still escorted a murderer across the border. She didn’t have to die, but she miscarried, lost too much blood, and couldn’t be saved in time. Her life ended at 30. She was always so stubborn, refusing to admit weakness even as blood soaked her uniform.
For years, I blamed myself—or fate—until three years ago, when I realized it had been deliberate.
It happened during New Year’s at He Feng’s father’s house. The old man wanted to set off fireworks with his son and granddaughter. While making dumplings at home, I noticed a secondary storage card of He Feng’s on the table. It was labeled "SR"—Shourong? Curious, I plugged it into my signal rod.
The data was corrupted, showing only garbled code. But I’d trained in programming for censorship compliance. For the first time in five years, I felt motivated. After some work, surveillance footage appeared:
First, Shourong’s bank account, annotated: "Father martyr, mother died in service—substantial inheritance."This account must’ve been from her high school days. Had He Feng been tracking it?
Next, their wedding photo. Note: "Joint marital property." Then came a video—early in their marriage. Shourong said, "The shrapnel’s been removed, don’t worry." He Feng didn’t respond immediately but soon wrapped an arm around her waist—tightly. She flinched.
The footage jumped to a late-night scene. Shourong was pregnant—likely with Lele. Drenched in sweat, she struggled out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before vomiting dark blood. The timestamp wasn’t fully erased; she was about five months along. A chilling note appeared: "Childbirth. Promotion to Superintendent. High compensation. Killing the goose for golden eggs."
The last clip was from May 207N. Shourong, in uniform, sobbed uncontrollably. He Feng was off-camera but audible: "Meng Shourong, you’re not just yourself now—you’re a wife, a mother. You know lawyers don’t get big promotions, so you must understand your responsibilities." His tone softened. "If you succeed in this cross-border escort mission, there could be a commendation. A promotion to Superintendent wouldn’t just advance your career—it’d secure our family’s finances and honor your mother, Superintendent Zhuang, who died in service."
"He Feng," Shou Rong’s voice cracked. "My body can’t take this. I need rest, or I’ll inherit not her spirit but her fate—death on duty."
After a pause, He Feng murmured, "But I’ve already submitted your military report. You just need approval."
"Since when did you have authority over my reports?"
"Since you left drafts at home."
Shou Rong’s expression twisted into despair. "Four years of marriage, a second child on the way—this is how you treat me?"
"Reports from an officer of your rank carry binding legal force." He dodged her question. "I’m doing this for our family."
"You’re pushing me to my death." She laughed bitterly. "Lawyer He, I’ll make sure everyone sees you for what you are!"
"Postpartum depression again?" He sneered.
"You know exactly what you’re doing! I regret not seeing it sooner—not being half as sober as I am now." She wiped her tears and slammed the door.
The footage ended. I quickly made copies, storing them across multiple devices. So, when Shourong insisted I write Zhou Qi’an’s death—pregnant, coerced into overwork by family—was she trying to speak out? But I’d feared reader backlash, so I’d only kept the "sacrifice" part. Maybe that was why He Feng hadn’t censored my novel.
That night, as the New Year’s bell tolled, I thought of Shou Rong—her terrible dumplings that always fell apart. I used to laugh and eat them anyway. Did He Feng ever humor her like that? Now, I’d never taste them again. Listening to the He family’s joy, my fury grew.
On the drive home, He Feng scolded me for ruining the holiday mood. I pulled over, turned on the interior light, and played the footage. He understood immediately but didn’t even try to stop me. "You won’t report me." He smirked.
"Why not?"
"Because you don’t dare." His grin widened. "I’m He Le’s biological father. If I’m penalized, she’ll fail future political screenings."
For the first time, I felt utterly powerless. Why did it have to be him?
After that, our dinners dwindled—from nightly to twice a week, then once every two weeks. He knew I hated him.
At the law firm, I worked nonstop. From April 23 to April 25, 5:10 AM—31 straight hours—I finished all of He Feng’s pending tasks except litigation. Staggering out, I hailed a self-driving car, too exhausted to drive. I fell asleep instantly but was jolted awake minutes later by the arrival alarm. Barely conscious, I collapsed into bed.
Then—something strange. A resonance, as if particles were vibrating with my heartbeat. Was I awake? The crushing fatigue was gone, replaced by weightless ease. I wanted to cry but felt no physical urge—no stinging eyes, no tight throat. No tears fell.
"What’s on your mind?" A familiar voice. My vision cleared: I was in our high school dormitory?
"Shourong?!" I turned. There she was—not the worn woman of her last years, but the vibrant girl I’d missed for eight years. Low ponytail, sharp gaze, sitting cross-legged on the bed.
"Shourong! You—" I lunged, clinging to her. "Do you know how much I’ve missed you?"
Unlike her usual teasing self, she stiffened slightly before gently patting my back. "It’s okay. We’re never really apart if you remember me."
"Since when are you so poetic?" I sniffled.
She kissed my cheek. "Learned from you." Hopping off the bed, she tugged my hand. "Come on, let’s walk. Do you know what today is?"
"April 25."
"My birthday!" She beamed. "Only you and Mom ever remembered."
"What about He Feng?" I regretted asking immediately.
"Him?" She linked arms with me. "Let’s not waste time on him."
If she’d really felt this way in high school, she’d never have married him. But love had worn her down, and her husband had pushed her into the grave.
"You’re crying again." Her own eyes were red.
We both knew—this wasn’t just a reunion. We were beyond life and death now.
Hand in hand, we wandered the empty campus. Lush trees, no birds; sunlight and breeze, yet no rustling leaves. Only us.
"Can we leave? The canteen’s closed."
She shook her head. "If we leave, ‘we’ won’t be ‘us’ anymore."
"How should I celebrate your birthday, then?"
She leaned close. "This meeting is gift enough." Her smile was bittersweet. "Gao Qingliu, I hate seeing you cry. Where’s the cheerful, imaginative girl I knew? The one who always found hope?"
"You might not understand now—"
Because I’ve spent eight years without you.
"I’ve heard you cry every year," she whispered. "On my birthday."
I froze. Right—while He Feng only visited her grave on her death anniversary, I went on her birthday too, weeping alone.
"You were there? You knew everything?"
She hugged me tight. "I knew. Thank you... for raising Lele so well. I’m sorry my death trapped you."
"Not your fault." I choked. "I should’ve heard your pain. I knew all your wounds yet couldn’t stop—"
"Not yours either." She sighed. "I didn’t expect to die. He Feng only saw my declining health—he didn’t know how bad it was. He wanted me to make Superintendent and give him a son first. He thought I’d just die younger, not then. But after the miscarriage, I bled out too fast..." She described her death calmly. "I was arresting a terrorist when my hands spasmed. I held on until backup came, then collapsed. By then, it was too late."
"Don’t worry," I forced a smile. "Lele likes her milk at 42°C, just like you said. Her lullabies are police hymns. She loves blue, like you... She’s growing up just like you at her age."
"I know you’ve done beautifully." She braided my hair. "You’ve been more of a parent than her father. Thank you for enduring He Feng for us." Her tears fell on my shoulder. "It hurts me—you were always the free spirit, the dreamer. Yet you gave that up to raise my child, bound by a marriage you never wanted. Why did my death chain you?"
"Don’t cry, Rong." I turned before she finished the braid. "I chose to raise Lele. I love you—how could I abandon someone you loved? He Feng’s laws couldn’t have forced me if I’d refused."
"I know he used legal threats, but listen: I want Gao Qingliu to be happy. To be free. To be herself." She kissed my forehead. "No matter what you choose, I’ll always support you. Love outlives death."
"Will you stay with me?" I reached for her hand—but mine passed through. Her image flickered like static.
"Don’t panic. You still have time to wish me happy birthday." She smiled through tears I could no longer wipe.
"Happy birthday, Shourong."
"Thank you." Her voice echoed as she faded. "I’ll always be with you. But we’ll never meet again."
I woke in a hospital. A nurse said I’d suffered multi-organ ruptures from stress and exhaustion. "Like your body endured 12-14 high-frequency vibrations—almost like banned sonar fishing. But spontaneous cases like yours are rare." Lawyer Yao had found me unconscious at home and called an ambulance.
"Do you believe in souls?" I rasped.
The nurse hesitated. "I saw my best friend—my daughter’s mother. She died eight years ago. Today was her birthday..."
"Today?" She checked her watch. "April 26?"
"April 25. We talked for hours."
She smiled gently. "You were in critical care all day on the 25th. It might’ve been hemorrhagic delirium."
Later, I realized: it might’ve been neutrinos—particles that pass through matter, interacting weakly, spinning 1/2, triggering decay with gamma photons. Maybe they’d formed some fleeting image.
But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that on April 25, at 36 years old, I’d seen Shourong one last time.
This time, we’d said goodbye.
And that was enough.
作者有话说
第1章 Spiral
