The streetlights were dim, and snowflakes slanted down in a dense, unhurried curtain.
They settled on Tang Song's shoulders and hair, and on the beautician crying uncontrollably in his arms.
Tang Song looked at the system screen slowly fading before him, his heart filled with an indescribably complicated feeling.
The training plan had ended.
The long and extraordinary path of [Dancing Golden Canary] had reached its end.
Of course, he was happy.
He had watched Zhao Yachian transform and grow bit by bit, and changed her life with his own hands.
That in itself was an irreplaceable sense of satisfaction and achievement.
Yet beneath the joy was a faint, inexplicable melancholy.
Looking back on the journey.
When he had first met Zhao Yachian at Yizi Beauty, she had still been that slightly brash, slightly naive little beautician.
She would shout, "Fill it with 95," and curse, "That bastard blackhearted boss," even as tears streamed down her face.
Her eyes would light up over the smallest kindness or gift from him, and because she could never hide what was on her mind, every grievance and joy was plainly written across her face.
Now, of course, she had changed.
Her temperament, horizons, understanding—even her spending bracket and social circle—had all continued to rise.
The little beautician who stretched her Huabei credit to make ends meet, worried over her credit card bills, and hesitated forever before buying a better bottle of cosmetics was gone for good. Yet her complete, unreserved dependence on him, along with that innate sweetness and innocence, remained exactly the same as the Zhao Yachian he had known from the beginning.
When she was happy, she laughed. When she was unhappy, she cried. When she liked someone, she clung to them.
She never concealed anything, nor did she ever calculate.