The Brian Carter across from her had the same good temper as when he was young, or perhaps he was even more good-natured now. Seeing the situation, he said, “I live here alone. Just settle in for now. There are special social assistance policies for your situation. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to get your ID replaced and buy some daily necessities.”

“Don’t worry, and don’t rush. Take your time, you’ll get used to it.” The old man comforted her gently, never once mentioning anything about himself over the past forty years, nor did he ask her anything.

Alice Grant suddenly sat up and frowned, asking, “Are you treating me like your granddaughter, trying to coax me?”

Brian Carter blinked, looked at her steadily, sighed, and said with a hint of helplessness, “I’m already over sixty. I could pretty much be your grandfather.”

When he was young, he always had a scholarly air about him, never once losing his temper with anyone. Now, he was the very image of a wise and kind elder, watching her with a gaze that held insight, nostalgia, and a touch of melancholy, as if he could see right through her heart.

Chapter 2

That night, Alice Grant rested in the guest room on the second floor. Brian Carter’s room was on the first floor, directly beneath hers.

Alice Grant lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. She couldn’t tell if it was because the house was too well soundproofed or because Brian Carter was just too quiet—she didn’t hear a single sound from downstairs, not even the hum of the air conditioning.

The unfamiliar room was simply and sparsely furnished, clearly never lived in. Although there was no strange smell, it still made Alice Grant feel uncomfortable. She had been terribly headstrong when she was young, and only got a little better after her twenties—but just a little. So after holding out for a while, she couldn’t take it anymore.

Throwing off the covers, she jumped out of bed and stomped hard on the floor, making a loud thumping noise. Unless the person downstairs was deaf, he’d definitely hear it.

Sure enough, after a moment, Brian Carter came upstairs and knocked on her door.

“What’s wrong? Is something the matter?”

Alice Grant opened the door to let him in, and, looking for something to say, complained, “It’s too hot in the room. I can’t sleep.”

Brian Carter was still wearing long pants and sleeves, and didn’t look like he’d gone to bed yet. Strange—don’t old men usually go to bed early?

Glancing at the room’s temperature display, Brian Carter sighed inwardly and said gently, “It’s gotten cooler today. Setting the room to 28 degrees is most comfortable. Any lower and you might catch a cold.”

“That won’t do. I just feel hot,” Alice Grant insisted.

Alice Grant’s stubborn temper was something Brian Carter hadn’t dealt with in a long time. Now, forty years later, he seemed to take it in stride. Without further comment, he lowered the temperature by one degree. Seeing Alice Grant eyeing the temperature control, Brian Carter was still a bit uneasy and reminded her before leaving, “Don’t turn it down any further. And make sure to use the thin blanket before you sleep.”

When he said these things, you could faintly see the young man he once was—a nagging youth. After Brian Carter left, Alice Grant lay back down on the bed.

When he was young, Brian Carter had been rather careless about such things, but after marrying Alice Grant, he started paying attention to these little details, as if he understood that now he had a family and needed to take good care of the wife he loved. He was always busy with his research, forgetful and absent-minded, so he had to jot down reminders in a notebook, checking it before leaving or coming home.

Once, Alice Grant curiously flipped through his memo notebook and found it was a mess, with work and life all mixed together. There were notes like “buy braised duck after work today,” “Alice Grant doesn’t eat ginger,” “buy flowers for the three-month wedding anniversary,” and many research-related problems she couldn’t understand. She didn’t pay much attention to those, just thought it was silly to still carry a notebook as a memo in 2018—why not just use his phone? But Brian Carter said that writing things down by hand helped him remember better.

Thinking of all this, the irritation in Alice Grant’s heart gradually faded. She lay on her back, staring at the dim ceiling for a while, then reached out to pull the thin blanket over herself and closed her eyes.

“Alice Grant, I hope you don’t force yourself.”

Alice Grant recalled the look on Brian Carter’s face that afternoon as he said those words while sitting on the sofa. Ever since seeing her, he had acted very calm—so calm, in fact, that it seemed unnatural to Alice Grant. After not seeing his wife for forty years, shouldn’t he be at least a little excited?

Maybe forty years really was too long—long enough to completely forget someone, to feel nothing at all, and so naturally, not be excited. If that was the case, it was normal. Everything in this world had changed; of course people could change too.

Downstairs, Brian Carter sat silently in a chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, his glasses set aside on the small table next to him. The eyes of the old man no longer held the calm wisdom that could see through people’s hearts, but instead were filled with a kind of dazed confusion.

At that moment, the rhythmic thumping from upstairs sounded again, snapping Brian Carter out of his thoughts. He looked up at the ceiling, picked up his glasses and put them on, stood up with the help of the armrest, and smiled wryly, shaking his head with a sigh. “Getting old does have its advantages. Unlike young people, it’s easier to keep your emotions hidden.”

“Young people can never tell what old folks are thinking.” He smiled to himself, but his eyes were full of sorrow.