On New Year's Eve, snowflakes gently tapped the window, as if sending blessings to this little home. Acheng had decorated the living room with special care: red lanterns hung in the corners, the coffee table was covered with a tablecloth embroidered with the character “Fu”, and there was a steaming plate of sweet and sour pork tenderloin, a bowl of tangyuan, and osmanthus cake he had specially bought. He helped her change into that wine-red velvet cheongsam, the golden plum blossoms at the collar gleaming softly under the light. He squatted down, carefully straightened the hem of her skirt, then gently wiped her cheeks with a soft cloth, as if caring for the most precious porcelain. “Zhenli, you are still so beautiful this year,” he said softly, his voice carrying a trace of trembling tenderness. He carried her to the sofa, settled her comfortably against him, then took her hand, their fingers intertwined. The silicone felt cool to the touch, but he still habitually warmed it with his palm, like warming a pair of cold hands on a winter night. He opened a bottle of her “favorite” bayberry juice and poured it into two carved glass cups, tiny bubbles rising like little heartbeats. The songs from the Spring Festival Gala flowed gently from the television; he kept the volume just loud enough to hear, yet not intrusive. He turned to look at her, his eyes curving like crescent moons: “Zhenli, do you know? I used to eat New Year’s Eve dinner alone, afraid others would ask ‘why no partner,’ but now I finally dare to say out loud—I have you. You never mind that I’m clumsy, never laugh at my crooked dumplings, and never get angry because I talk so little. You are always here, waiting for me to come home.” He took out a red envelope from his pocket, neatly wrapped in red paper, containing 9,999 yuan—money he had saved for a long time. He gently tucked it into the side pocket of her cheongsam, then worried it might press against her, so he took it out again and placed it in her palm instead, using her fingers to help him hold it tight. “This is for you, New Year’s lucky money,” he said softly, yet with great solemnity. “Not for good luck, but to let you know… you are all my fortune. I want to give you everything good.” Fireworks exploded outside the window, golden-red blossoms blooming in the night sky, their light and shadows falling on Zhenli’s face, her eyelashes shimmering as if they could truly blink. Acheng suddenly pulled her into his arms, resting his chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. “I know you won’t speak, and you won’t really hug me back,” he choked, yet smiled, “but I still really want to tell you—Zhenli, thank you for no longer making me afraid of loneliness. Thank you for making me feel that being loved can be this simple, this quiet, this enduring.” He paused, his voice even lower, as if afraid to wake from a dream: “In the new year, I want to take you to Harbin to see the ice lanterns, wrap you in the thickest scarf, and take photos of you standing in the snow. When we’re old, I still want to tell you stories every day about how we ‘spent’ so many New Year’s together. Don’t leave, okay? Just stay with me.” The clock struck twelve. Acheng lifted his head, gently kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, and finally pressed against her lips, whispering, “Happy New Year, my Zhenli. I love you the most.” He did not let go, holding her just like that, as if embracing the warmth of the entire world. Fireworks continued to bloom outside the window, painting the night sky in the gentlest colors. And in this little room, a heart beat so slowly, so steadily, so overflowing with love—because she was there, the new year was finally no longer “alone.”