"We will now announce the winner for the 20XX National Mathematical Olympiad," the host declared, voice echoing across the grand auditorium, where hundreds sat in breathless anticipation.

Lu Qingyan sat at the front row, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her heart pounding like a drum.

The lights overhead seemed too bright, the claps too loud, every second stretching unbearably.

Her phone buzzed quietly in her pocket.

One message.

From her mother.

[Qingyan, after you're done there, come to the hospital. Your brother is in critical condition. I'll explain everything when you get here.]

Her breath hitched.

The applause around her was deafening now.

"Our grand champion for this year's Olympiad is none other than—Lu Qingyan! A student who not only showed exceptional performance but who came back stronger every time she fell!"

The crowd erupted in cheers. People were standing, clapping, looking at her like she was some kind of hero.

But inside, Lu Qingyan's world had gone deathly silent.

'The day that should've been my greatest triumph…'

She stared numbly ahead.

Her legs felt like lead. Applause no longer sounded like music. It sounded like crashing waves swallowing her whole.

'...became the worst day of my life.'

An hour later.

She was sitting in the passenger seat of her teacher's car, still clutching the medal in her hand like it might vanish.

It felt heavy. Too heavy.

"Still, you did great receiving the award. And the speech…" her teacher offered gently, glancing at her with a small, proud smile.

Lu Qingyan didn't respond right away.

She was looking down, her fingers tightening around the hem of her dress until her knuckles turned white.

"Teacher," she whispered, her voice dry, almost breaking. "Thank you… really. But... Can we please just go to the hospital first?"

Her teacher blinked, concern washing over her face. "Of course. I'll get us there as soon as possible."

Lu Qingyan nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the

passing blur of traffic outside the window.

Her hand drifted to her lap, where the edge of the award certificate peeked out of her bag.

In the end, she had gone up to receive it. The medal. The trophy. The recognition. The honor.

Because her brother said he wanted to see her win.

He said he'd stay by her side.

He promised.

And she'd believed him.

'This… This was supposed to be for him,' she thought, placing a trembling hand over her face. Her tears didn't fall yet. They just swelled, brimming, burning behind her lashes.

'I don't even remember what state of mind I was in when I gave that speech.'

'Public opinion be damned… Should I have just left immediately?'

Would they understand?

But no. She'd stayed. Because if she left, the award would have no meaning. Because she thought—

Because she hoped—

That he'd be okay.

"That's what he would've wanted," she murmured to herself. "To see me on stage. Smiling."

She was lying to herself.

"Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay…" she chanted under her breath like a mantra, like a child trying to ward off monsters under the bed. "It'll be okay. Please let it be okay…"

The screen lit up: Mom.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for it.

The world slowed down.

She pressed answer.

"Xiaoyan…" Her mother's voice came through, barely holding together. It cracked like ice underfoot.

"Mom. What happened? Is— Is Big Brother okay?" Lu Qingyan asked, instantly sitting up straighter, her voice sharp with panic.

Silence.

Too long.

Too loud.

Her chest tightened.

She let out a small, almost hysterical laugh. "Mom… Please don't scare me like this. He's okay, right? You're just messing with me, right? This is a mistake. Just tell me—he's okay. Please, tell me—he's okay."

A beat.

"I'm sorry, Xiaoyan," her mother sobbed.

It felt like the world stopped.

Something inside her cracked, violently.

She ended the call.

The phone slipped from her hand.

Blurgh.

She bent forward, retching as though her body couldn't hold the grief.

Nothing came out—just the sound of something breaking inside her.

"No," she whispered.

"No, no, no, no—" her voice trembled as tears finally spilled, rushing down her cheeks uncontrollably. "Brother… Brother…"

She fumbled with the necklace around her neck, pulling it open to reveal the tiny photo tucked inside: a picture of her and her brother when they were still children. She was six. He was eight. His arms wrapped around her shoulders as they grinned, two kids who believed life would always be kind.

She clutched it to her chest, sobbing so hard her body shook.

"I should've gone there. I should've been with him."

Tears blurred her vision. Her hands shook.

"What is this…?" she choked out between sobs. "I lived my whole life working so damn hard. I gave up everything… everything. So why… Why my brother?!"

She screamed. A silent scream, a cry of anguish that tore her throat but made no sound.

"Why is this happening to me?" she whispered. "Why him? He was the kindest person in the world. He never even hurt a bug… And now…"

She curled into herself, burying her face in her hands.

"Please… Give him back."

No one answered.

Not even God.

She pressed the photo tighter to her chest, her tears soaking the fabric of her dress.

The day she should've been crowned champion.

The day she was supposed to stand tall.

The day her brother said he would watch her shine.

Was the day everything fell apart.

And all she had left… was a medal that meant nothing without him.

The hospital entrance was cold and sterile, but the moment Lu Qingyan stepped inside, the world didn't feel real anymore.

Her footsteps echoed faintly against the tiles, her medal still tucked in her coat pocket like a cruel joke.

She barely had time to process the bright fluorescent lights or the faint chemical sting of antiseptic before she was swarmed.

"Are you the one who just won this year's NCMO?"

"Oh my god, you're Lu Qingyan, right? I saw the live stream—"

"Didn't you give that speech about resilience? That was amazing!"

Their voices came from all directions, admiration laced in every tone, but none of it could reach her.

Not now.

She kept her expression neutral and gave a stiff nod. "Excuse me. I have somewhere I need to be."

She brushed past them as politely as she could, but it was impossible to stop her urgency from bleeding into her voice.

As she turned toward the elevator, she heard them muttering behind her.

"So full of herself now that she won."

"She barely smiled."

"Head up high like she's better than everyone…"

Her grip tightened on the strap of her bag, knuckles white, but she didn't stop. Didn't turn around. Let them talk.

They didn't know.

They didn't know that each step she took toward the third floor felt like stepping through quicksand.

They didn't know that her world was breaking apart.

She reached the third floor and the hallway felt like it stretched for miles.

The hospital corridor was too quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful—it was terrifying. The walls were pale. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air. Nurses moved around briskly. Machines beeped softly in nearby rooms. But all she could focus on was the figure hunched near a hospital door.

Her mother.

Sitting on the floor outside the ward, shoulders trembling, head bowed low as she sobbed into her hands.

And beside her—Lu Qingyan froze.

Her father.

Still in his business suit, though it was rumpled now, his tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot behind his glasses. He looked… small. Out of place. Powerless.

The man who was always distant, always busy, always composed, stood with his hand resting weakly against the wall, like it was the only thing holding him up.

Lu Qingyan wanted to laugh. Bitterly.

The last time she saw her father was weeks ago. She had half-joked that he only remembered her and her brother existed during award ceremonies. Now, the next time she saw him—was here. When Mingxun was gone.

Gone.

No. No, no, no.

She forced her legs to move.

"Mother," she called out, her voice cracking.

Her mother looked up. Her face was streaked with tears, eyes swollen and red. 

The moment she saw Lu Qingyan, she broke again, arms outstretched, and Qingyan rushed into her embrace.

She collapsed into her mother's arms, the weight of it all crashing down at once.

She had already cried in the car. But this—this was different. This was real. And now that she was here, it was no longer just fear or dread.

It was truth.

And it was unbearable.

Ly Qingyan sobbed into her mother's shoulder, gripping her tightly, like if she held on hard enough, maybe time would reverse.

"I'm here," she choked. "I'm here now…"

Ten minutes passed like smoke.

Then the door opened.

A doctor stepped out with tired eyes and a clipboard clutched tightly in his hands.

He looked at the family—the broken mother, the stiff father, the trembling girl—and he sighed quietly, like he'd done this too many times and it never got easier.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lu," the doctor said gently. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Lu Qingyan blinked.

Her heart thudded hard in her chest.

The doctor continued, "It was confirmed that the patient—your son—passed due to self-harm. Based on time of death, he's been gone for approximately three hours."

Everything inside her went still.

The world didn't move.

She stared at the doctor like he'd spoken in a foreign language.

The words didn't make sense. They couldn't.

"What…?" she whispered.

No. This wasn't right.

"No. Doctor—there's… there's a misunderstanding," Lu Qingyan said, voice rising.

She took a step forward, shaking her head, pleading with her eyes. "That's impossible. My brother… he—he was the happiest person I knew. You're wrong. He wouldn't do that."

The doctor opened his mouth, but she wasn't finished.

"Just this morning—" her voice broke. "Just this morning, he told me to do my best. He said if I won, he'd treat me to ice cream. He even joked about getting two scoops because it was going to be a 'double victory day.' You don't understand—he wouldn't do that."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gripped the fabric of her dress, her fists shaking.

"My brother… Mingxun wouldn't do that!" she cried, louder now, desperately trying to rewrite reality through sheer will. "He's strong. He always looked after me. He always—he promised—he told me he'd be waiting when I came back from the ceremony!"

The doctor looked down, helpless.

Lu Qingyan turned to her parents, tugging on their sleeves like a child. "Mom… Dad… tell them. Tell them he wouldn't. Tell them there's no way…"

Her mother was weeping quietly now, unable to form words.

Her father… for the first time in her life, she saw him lower his head, not in shame or anger—but in sorrow. He gently placed a hand on her head, and Qingyan looked up at him with broken eyes.

"Xiaoyan," he said quietly, voice hoarse. He didn't say anything else.

Because there was nothing else to say.

Lu Qingyan's knees buckled.

She fell to the ground, clutching her chest as if she could hold the pain in—but it spilled out anyway, raw and agonizing.

"No… Please, no… not him…"

Her mother knelt beside her, embracing her as Lu Qingyan's body shook violently with sobs.

All her hard work.

All the sacrifices.

All the nights she stayed up studying, pushing herself past her limits, just to make them proud—just to make him proud.

She would've thrown it all away if it meant seeing him laugh again. If it meant hearing his voice again.

The medal in her pocket felt like a curse.

She didn't want to be a champion.

She just wanted her brother back.

Before the funeral, everything felt like a blur. Time had folded into itself—nothing moved forward, and yet everything was happening too quickly.

It was her grandmother who called the Feng Shui master.

Lu Qingyan had overheard the hushed conversations in the living room, the whispered belief that choosing the right day and hour might bring peace to the soul of the departed.

The Feng Shui master had studied the almanac and the direction of the winds, his fingers moving over the chart with practiced precision. He eventually settled on an auspicious date and time for the burial—something about aligning heaven and earth for a smooth journey to the afterlife.

Her family didn't protest.

In times like this, they grasped for meaning in anything they could.

Three days of visitation were arranged before the burial.

Their home transformed into a place of mourning.

A white banner hung outside the gate, fluttering solemnly with the wind.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense and grief.

Lu Qingyan wore a traditional white mourning robe—plain, coarse, and heavy. White, the color of death in their culture.

Her long black hair was tied back, and a single white flower was tucked above her ear. It wasn't just for tradition—it was for him. White chrysanthemums, too, were everywhere—she had made sure of it. They symbolized grief, purity, and farewell.

Her grandmother came dressed in red, her eyes dull with sorrow. It was an old custom: when a grandchild died before the elders, the elders wore red to ward off misfortune. A cruel contradiction. Red, the color of joy, now clashed against the sea of white. It was jarring, but no one questioned it.

On the first night, Lu Qingyan made a decision.

"I'll stay with him tonight," she said quietly, firmly. Her voice trembled, but her eyes did not.

Her parents looked at her—hesitating—but in the end, they said nothing. They stayed too.

That night, she sat by her brother's coffin, legs tucked under her as she watched the flickering glow of the candles.

She kept the incense burning, replacing each stick before it died out. The joss paper—spirit money—crackled and curled into ash as she fed it to the flames one by one.

"Buy something nice up there, okay?" she whispered as she watched it burn. "Don't be stingy like before."

She tried to smile.

It didn't last.

The funeral hall filled with wreaths and bouquets—some sent from people she didn't even recognize. But the ones that mattered, she knew. His friends came, each carrying flowers, photos, quiet tears.

On the first day, his high school classmates showed up in a line. Some stared at the ground, others cried openly. They brought letters, small tokens.

Someone placed a basketball keychain inside the offering tray. Another left a drawing.

Lu Qingyan didn't ask who drew it. She simply placed it near his portrait.

On the second day, his college classmates arrived. They were older, quieter. Many bowed deeply to her parents, and then to her. 

She caught snippets of conversation—words like shock, he was always smiling, never thought...

But what moved her most was on every single day, his childhood friends came.

All of them.

They didn't just come for one day out of obligation. They came every day, straight for seven days.

They brought memories and laughter and silence. They brought tears.

Lu Qingyan smiled bitterly as she arranged another chrysanthemum.

"I hope you knew," she whispered, her fingers brushing a petal, "that you were loved this much."

People kept coming.

And with them came the pitying glances.

The awkward condolences.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"He was such a bright soul."

"My deepest sympathy."

Words that meant well. But none of them could touch the gaping hole inside her.

Each phrase felt like a pin in her skin.

Each nod of sympathy only made it more real.

He was gone.

He was really gone.

And every time someone said, "Be strong," she wanted to scream.

Because she had been strong. Too strong. Seven days of nodding, bowing, thanking them with dry eyes and tight smiles.

She didn't want strength.

She wanted her brother.

And then came the burial.

The sky was gray, as if the heavens themselves were mourning.

The air was damp and thick. Lu Qingyan wore white again, her robe even heavier with rain and heartbreak.

She stood beside the casket as it was slowly lowered into the earth.

There were no more incense sticks to hold, no more joss paper to burn.

There was only the finality of dirt.

And that was when she broke.

The tears didn't come quietly this time.

She sobbed—loud, guttural, uncontrollable sobs that tore from her throat like she had been holding them in for years, not days.

Her knees gave out, and she fell to the ground, clutching her robe as if it would keep her from falling apart completely.

Her mother knelt beside her, holding her.

Her father turned away, his face hidden behind his sleeve.

"I miss you," she wept, voice cracking. "I miss you so much, big brother… I don't know how to live without you…"

Her cries echoed through the cemetery.

There was no shame in them.

No silence left.

She had kept herself together for seven days—for her family, for the guests, for the traditions.

But now… now she let herself grieve.

And as the final shovel of earth covered his grave, Lu Qingyan knew one thing:

The world had lost its brightest light.

And she had lost her best friend.