The final words spilled from her lips like a plea, and at that exact moment, Fu Jingrong struck the last chord, letting it echo through the room.

The piano note lingered in the air, trembling like a dying heartbeat, before finally fading into silence.

Her voice broke on the last syllable, her lips parting as if she wanted to say more, but only silence followed.

Hua Jing sat there, her chest heaving, as though her very soul had been poured into the song.

And Fu Jingrong’s hands rested on the keys, unmoving, the weight of the final note still heavy between them.

The silence in the music room stretched, but neither of them moved. Their gazes locked, heavy with years of unspoken words.

Hua Jing’s heart trembled. Even though she and Fu Jingrong had already cleared their misunderstandings in the ancient world—when he was Zhaoyang, the prince, and she was by his side—there were still some strings that remained untouched.

Those strings tugged at her now.

It wasn’t enough that they had found each other again in this new life. The years they had lost, the pain they had endured separately, still lingered between them like a shadow. Until it was confronted, it would never fade.

Her breath came unevenly as a memory stirred deep inside her. In the ancient world, when her past memories had opened, she had remembered something she had long buried in this one.

That snowy day.

The day her mother was killed by Chen Li. She had been so small, her voice trapped in her throat, her tears freezing on her lashes as she watched helplessly. Blood had spilled onto the snow, turning it into a cruel canvas of red and white.

She had wanted to scream, but a boy—just a boy—had pressed his hand over her mouth, pulling her back into the shadows. He had carried her on his little back through the frost, his steps unsteady but determined, until they hid in a cave together.

She had never dared to open that wound again in this life. The memory had been sealed away, locked so deeply that she thought she had imagined it. But in the ancient world, she had seen it clearly for the first time. She had realized the boy had not been a stranger. He had been Zhao Yan.

And now, standing here, with Fu Jingrong’s music still lingering in the air, she realized it once more. The frost he had sung of—it was the same frost of that day. The day they had truly met.

Her chest tightened as the realization sank in. She stepped down from the island, her movements almost frantic, and rushed toward him.

"It was me, wasn’t it?" Her voice broke, tears spilling freely now.

Fu Jingrong rose from the piano, his tall figure still but his eyes filled with turbulence. He didn’t move away when she reached him. His arms were already waiting.

She gripped his shirt desperately, searching his face through her tears. "That frost... the one in your song. It was that day, wasn’t it? The day my mother died... You were the boy."

For a moment, silence pressed heavily between them. His gaze softened, his lips curving into a faint, bitter smile.

"Yes," he said at last, his voice low, but steady.

Her heart shattered at the confirmation. The tears poured faster, and she shook her head in disbelief. "All this time... I thought it was just a dream. A memory too painful to be real. But it was you... It was you all along."

Fu Jingrong lifted his hand, brushing away the tears on her cheeks. His touch was tender, but the sorrow in his eyes was impossible to hide.

"I never told you," he said, his tone carrying years of restraint, "because I wanted you to forget. That frost... it took your mother from you. How could I let it take away your peace as well? I thought if I stayed silent, you would be free."

Her sobs broke into the quiet air, her body trembling in his hold. "But you weren’t free either, were you? You carried it with you... all this time."

His arms wrapped around her, strong and unyielding, pressing her into his chest. She felt his heartbeat against her own, steady yet heavy, as though he was carrying not just his memories, but hers as well.

"No," he whispered into her hair. "That frost has never melted for me."

Her tears soaked into his shirt as her hands clung to him. The years they had lost, the lives they had crossed, the pain they had endured—it all came rushing back.

And yet, within that pain was the undeniable truth: he had been with her since the very beginning.

Even on the day she thought she had been left utterly alone, he had been there.

Fu Jingrong’s arms tightened around her trembling frame, his gaze deep, as though seeing through the layers of years and lifetimes that bound them together.

He had already known, long before this moment, that she was the same little girl from that snowy day.

The memory of that frost had never left him. He remembered it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday—the blood against the white snow, her small body shaking in terror, the muffled cry beneath his palm as he carried her away.

He had only been a boy, yet in that instant, something fierce had rooted itself in his heart.

A determination to protect her. To shield her from the cruelty that had stolen her mother before her very eyes.

But fate had been cruel to them. Years passed. She grew, her mind mercifully sealing away the unbearable memory.

He thought she had forgotten, and in a way, he wished she had. Because for him, it had remained sharp, cutting him every time he remembered her pale little face streaked with tears.

He could still recall how hard she had cried that day. She had cling to him while tears fell heavily on the snow.

Hua Mansion guards were in pursuit of them so she could dare not cry loudly yet when they were in the clear, she could hear her muffled utterings,

"Mother...mother..."