The forty-nine days following her brother's death were steeped in ritual and silence, in smoke and sorrow.
In their culture, these forty-nine days held deep spiritual weight. It was believed that the soul wandered, searching for peace, for resolution. That rebirth was not immediate. That the living could guide the dead toward a better next life through prayers, offerings, and merit-making.
So Lu Qingyan and her family honored every single one of those days.
Each morning began with incense, with soft chanting, with carefully arranged offerings: fresh fruit, his favorite snacks, cups of warm tea, and candles that burned until they melted into nothing.
They refrained from all joyous events. No celebrations, no loud laughter, no bright colors.
Everyone wore black. Even the flowers in the house were muted, soft whites and grays, as if color itself had vanished with her brother's departure.
On some days, they released paper lanterns into the sky, carrying their hopes that he was finding light in whatever realm he now wandered.
Lu Qingyan never missed a day. Not once.
She burned joss paper until her fingers were smudged with ash.
She recited sutras until her throat ached.
She bowed so many times her knees grew raw.
And when the forty-ninth day finally came, and they performed the final ritual—offering food to monks, burning one last incense stick, and placing one final candle near his photo—there was only quiet left.
No peace.
Just quiet.
That night, after everyone had retreated to their rooms, Lu Qingyan sat on the edge of her bed, still in black.
Her fingers traced the hem of her sleeve absentmindedly.
The house felt bigger, emptier.
The halls didn't echo with laughter anymore.
And she, who had grown used to having a shadow in the form of her brother, now found her steps too loud. Too alone.
What now? she thought.
Summer vacation had just begun, but it didn't feel like a vacation.
Her family used to plan their annual trips around this time—sometimes the beach, sometimes the mountains, sometimes her brother would suggest something spontaneous like a road trip. There would be arguments over the music playlist, and who got the window seat. He always let her win.
But now, those plans were forgotten.
Her parents barely spoke. Her mother only moved when necessary. Her father threw himself into work. And she… she wandered through the days with no direction.
Something inside her told her to go to his room.
It hadn't been touched since the funeral.
The door still creaked the same way, but the air inside was heavier—like his absence had weight.
She ran her fingers over his bookshelf, the photos on his desk, the jacket slung over the back of his chair. And then, almost instinctively, she pulled open the drawer of his bedside table.
There, inside, was a worn notebook and a folded letter.
Her breath caught.
Carefully, reverently, she carried them to her room like fragile glass.
She opened the notebook first.
Its pages were filled with her brother's handwriting—small, neat, and warm.
She flipped through slowly, and as she read, something in her chest twisted.
"Today Xiaoyan turned 10. She told me she's a 'big girl' now and doesn't need me to walk her to school anymore. I acted cool about it, but... I'm kind of sad."
"Xiaoyan cried today because a boy called her a rabbit. She thought he was making fun of her teeth. I told her he probably liked her. I also told her she is a rabbit. The cutest, fluffiest rabbit in the world."
"Xiaoyan sang off-key today while doing homework. It was terrible. I loved it."
"She made me a paper flower today. It was ugly. It's in my drawer now. Forever."
"She got top marks again. I told her I was proud, but not as proud as I really am. She deserves more than just words."
"She got her first period. Mom was panicking, Dad was hiding, and I was the one who went to the store to buy pads. The cashier gave me a thumbs-up. Xiaoyan was embarrassed. I was honored."
"Today, she said she wanted to be just like me. I hope one day she learns to be even better."
"She drew me today. It's a stick figure with weird hair and an enormous head. Apparently that's what I look like. I'm keeping it forever."
"Today my little sister, Xiaoyan, finally beat me in chess. I told her I let her win, but actually I didn't. She's getting too smart. She looked so smug. I wanted to throw the board. I didn't. I'm proud of her. She still needs to work on her trash talk though. 4/10 delivery."
The entries went on like that. Full of warmth, little joys, quiet pride.
Lu Qingyan's tears blurred the ink.
She clutched the notebook to her chest, pressing it against her heart like it might bring him back.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the letter.
It was addressed to her.
The moment she unfolded it, she could feel his presence in every line. The paper smelled faintly of his cologne. His handwriting was still the same—steady, patient, like he always was.
Dear Xiaoyan,
Hey, little rabbit. If you're reading this, then you probably went snooping in my stuff again. Tsk tsk. I should've locked my drawer.
Okay... jokes aside—this is the letter I never wanted to write. And I hope you understand I didn't want to leave you with it. But I need to tell you the truth.
I've been struggling with depression for about two years now. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. You always looked at me like I was invincible, like your big brother could do anything. And I wanted to be that for you. I really did. I tried therapy. I tried medication. I tried pretending everything was fine. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. Sometimes I felt okay for days. Then suddenly, it would crash all over me like a wave I couldn't breathe through. And I hated it—how it made me tired, how it made me feel like I was failing you just by existing.
There were nights when I thought of you and that was enough to hold on. You gave me so many reasons to keep going. Your drawings. Your laugh. The way you steal my snacks even when I hide them. You're my favorite person in the entire world, you know that? But... this pain, it just doesn't listen sometimes. And I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. For not being strong enough. For not holding on longer. For not telling you sooner. I'm sorry you have to read this instead of hearing it from me face to face. You deserve better than this letter. You deserve a lifetime of hugs and bad jokes and ice cream days.
Xiaoyan... I'm so sorry I left you in this empty place. I didn't mean to. If I could've stayed, I would have. I promise I tried. Please don't blame yourself. Please don't think I didn't love you enough. I did. I love you more than anything in the world. You're going to grow up to be amazing—scary smart, with a kind heart and a fire in your soul. I'll be cheering for you, wherever I end up. Keep being brave, little rabbit. And don't forget to live. For both of us, okay?
—Love, Gege
(P.S. Tell Mom to stop putting cilantro in everything. Tell Dad I forgive him.)
By the time she finished the letter, Lu Qingyan could no longer breathe through her sobs. She folded herself over the letter, crying so hard it shook her body. Not just from grief—but from the unbearable love that radiated from every word.
He had suffered in silence.
And yet, in his last words, all he gave her was love.
Gentle, patient love.
She pressed the pages to her chest and cried—deep, shuddering sobs that reached the hollowest parts of her heart.
"I miss you," she whispered. "I miss you so much."
But somehow, even in the sorrow, she felt him again.
Not just in the notebook. Not just in the letter.
But in the love he left behind.