It's decided.

The following evening, Mu Qingxi sat at her desk, turned on her computer, and created a new folder, typing in the name: That Year.

At that moment, her husband appeared in the study once again, carrying a cup of milk. He said, “You’ve finally decided to write. Here, drink this before you start.”

After finishing the milk, Mu Qingxi said, “Honey, look, I just made a folder and named it ‘That Year.’ What do you think the book’s title should be?”

Her husband leaned on the desk with one hand and replied, “Didn’t we say it would be called ‘Fairy in the Sunset’ back then? Just use that—it brings back memories.”

She nodded and wrote it down. In the middle of the document, she typed a few words, then looked at her husband and asked, “Fairy in the Sunset. If I’m the fairy, what are you?”

He chuckled, “If you’re the fairy, then I’ll be the devil. After all, I was a real troublemaker back then. Otherwise, people might say you’re sugarcoating my past.”

She laughed, “You really know yourself well! Come here, let me give you a kiss as a reward.”

After their playful banter, Mu Qingxi pushed her husband gently. “Alright, go watch your game. I’ll be out soon.”

“Okay,” he replied simply, and then she was alone in the study. She placed her hands on the keyboard and began to type rapidly, without the slightest hesitation—just like that, the words began to flow.

An hour later, she looked up at the study door, listening to the sounds drifting from the living room. Her face softened with a trace of tenderness. On her birthday this year, Qin Yu had messaged her: “Mu Mu, I’d love to see Mu Mu as the fairy in the sunset, and Wei Yu as the elf.”

Her husband had seen the message and was supportive too. He said he also missed those fleeting days. If not for his encouragement, perhaps she would never have revisited those memories.

Thinking of the scar on her husband’s chest, her brow furrowed even more. She could never forget.

The unstoppable flow of blood, the endless tears, the cold glint of the knife, hands stained crimson… Yes, she often thought about that year. Perhaps if she hadn’t repeated that grade, so many things wouldn’t have happened.

Mu Qingxi pondered her youth—had she been wrong to bury herself in novels and fill pages with doodles? Should she have studied harder instead of being so rebellious? If not, perhaps she wouldn’t have learned such a painful lesson at the cost of someone’s blood.

Yet, if she hadn’t listened to her mother and repeated the year, she wouldn’t have the happiness she now enjoyed.

Not everyone understands that youth is too precious to waste; at least the young Mu Qingxi hadn’t understood. All she knew was that youth was their capital, something to squander endlessly.

Now, weary every day, she asked herself why she wasted so much of her youth instead of striving for something greater.

Back then, Lou had told her she regretted drifting aimlessly, but she was grateful for it too—otherwise, she never would have found her passion.

Lou said to her, “Xiao Xi, youth is for squandering and for striving, but it should be the squandering of striving. Our endless waste only traps us in difficulty.”

Mu Qingxi was pulled from her thoughts. The prelude was written; tomorrow she could start the real work. She shut down the computer, tidied the desk, and left the study. Emerging, she curled up on the sofa like a lazy kitten. Her husband drew her close, his hands gently massaging her shoulders as he whispered, “No need to push yourself so hard—savor the memories as you write.”

Lying across his lap, Mu Qingxi lifted her hand and waved it in front of his eyes, saying, “Honey, it’s midnight. I’m sleepy.”

“Oh, my darling is tired! Then let’s go to bed. Come on,” he said, turning off the television. As she felt herself suddenly lifted, Mu Qingxi quickly wrapped her arms around his neck, pouting, “You scared me!”

With a click, the door locked behind them. From inside the room, faint voices drifted out: “Oh, slow down—you still have your shoes on!”