I've been thinking about this chapter and I keep coming back to one idea: everything in this text is about restoration.
Wen Zhiyu's job is literally restoring ancient paintings — cleaning water stains, repairing creases, remounting damaged artwork. She explains the process with Gu Xingzhou: "We'll repair the damaged parts, then remount it completely." But she also acknowledges what can't be fixed: "which parts are beyond repair."
Isn't that exactly what her marriage is? Two people who were joined together through arrangement, not choice. There are water stains — the awkwardness, the distance, the fact that neither saved the other's contact. There are creases — the misunderstandings, the missed messages, the deleted WeChat friends. But the core is intact. The painting is worth saving.
And Pei Yan — this man who handles a fatal accident by doubling compensation, who insists on doing things "to the fullest extent possible" — he's applying the same philosophy to his marriage. A life cannot be brought back. A mistake cannot be unmade. But you can compensate. You can restore. You can remount.
The tie she gave him, sitting forgotten in her mind but worn proudly by him — that's a small symbol too. Something she thought was discarded, valued all along.
What is the story really saying? That damaged things can be restored. That care doesn't need to be grand to be real. That even a marriage of convenience can develop something genuine, one bitter dose of herbal medicine at a time.
