A loud cry split through the silence of the dim, cold room — a cry that echoed against the metallic walls like the first wail of life piercing the veil between this world and the next. The room smelled of iron and antiseptic. Shadows trembled on the tiled floor as the faint yellow lights above flickered, casting the silhouettes of doctors and nurses in motion — a blur of white coats, quick hands, and sharp voices.
Nurses moved in and out like tides drawn by urgency, their faces pale and focused, their whispers too low for anyone outside to hear. The door opened and closed repeatedly, each creak followed by another muffled command, another gasp, another footstep. No one outside dared to speak — not even those waiting with trembling hands and pounding hearts. The tension in the hallway was thick enough to choke on.
Inside, Yang LianLu lay on the narrow hospital bed, her body drenched in sweat. Her dark hair clung to her temples in damp strands, her breath uneven, every exhale trembling between agony and will. She bit her lower lip until the faint taste of blood filled her mouth — a desperate attempt to anchor herself, to stop her mind from floating away from the pain that felt endless.
She had endured. Gods knew she had endured.
Yet as another wave tore through her, her resolve trembled like thin glass.
The world narrowed into a blur of harsh lights and muffled orders. Even the lamps above seemed cruel — too bright to bear, yet too dim to give her hope. Her tears slipped down her cheeks soundlessly.
"Push, Mrs. Yang! You're almost there!" a nurse urged, her gloved hands steadying her trembling legs.
LianLu wanted to scream, to stop, to breathe, to run away — but there was nowhere to go. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms until she thought she might bleed again.
And then —
after what felt like eternity itself holding its breath —
a sharp, shrill cry rang out.
The cry of a newborn.
The sound tore through the chaos, softening every voice in the room. The doctors exchanged quick glances; even the nurses froze for a second before their faces lit up with relief.
"Finally—it's out!" the doctor exhaled, half laughing, half shaking his head as he caught the slippery, squirming child just before it could fall.
"It's a boy!" one of the nurses shouted, her voice bright with triumph.
For a fleeting moment, the air was filled with joy. Smiles broke out. One nurse gently wiped the newborn's tiny body, her movements reverent, while another wrapped him in a warm blanket. The crying softened into soft hiccups as the baby was handed to her arms.
But before the silence could settle—
another cry.
Another contraction.
Another life.
The doctors sprang back to work. This time, it came faster — smoother. LianLu's body trembled, but the pain was gentler, almost merciful. Within moments, another wail filled the air — sharper, angrier, more insistent than the first.
The doctor lifted the second child, his brows lifting in surprise. "Another boy," he murmured, but didn't pass him off immediately. Instead, he examined him closely, as if something about the child held him still.
The first nurse who carried the elder brother came closer, her eyes wide and curious. The two adults stood side by side, marveling at the new life as though they themselves had created it.
LianLu, exhausted, blinked her eyes open just in time to see them both — her two sons. Her vision swam, but she caught a strange sight:
The younger twin — tiny, red, and wriggling — turned his head sharply, his little fingers curling as he pointed toward the first. His face scrunched up, and a furious cry escaped him, loud and clear.
The nurses laughed softly.
"Wow!" the doctor chuckled, bouncing the newborn slightly. "Are you angry at your elder brother for making Mommy cry, huh?"
The first boy, calmer now, blinked his round eyes toward the ceiling, staring into the pale light as if lost in some quiet, secret thought.
LianLu managed a faint smile. Her lips trembled. "Can I… carry my babies?" she whispered, her voice a fragile thread.
The doctor nodded. "Of course."
They placed the swaddled infants into her waiting arms. Her fingers brushed against their warm cheeks, their tiny breaths fluttering against her skin like petals trembling in the wind. Tears welled in her eyes again — not from pain this time, but from the enormity of it all.
She looked from one small face to the other.
"Are they identical?" she asked softly, still unable to tell them apart.
"We aren't sure yet," the doctor replied gently. "But it seems like the case."
One of the nurses stepped forward, her expression kind but firm. "Ma'am, you should rest now. We'll take good care of them. You've done so well."
LianLu hesitated, then nodded. She pressed her lips to each tiny forehead, inhaling their scent — that faint, pure smell of new life. Her heart ached in a way she could not describe.
As the nurses carefully took the babies from her arms, she watched them until they disappeared past the doorway, their cries fading into the distance.
The room dimmed again. The flickering light buzzed faintly overhead. A heavy silence fell, and fatigue wrapped around her like a thick, soft blanket. Her eyelids grew heavier with each passing second.
Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard her name being called — a nurse's voice perhaps, or maybe something gentler, something that came from within.
And then — darkness.
She fell into it like sinking into deep water, unaware of where she was being taken, unaware that the world had just shifted — that somewhere, beyond the quiet hum of the machines and the soft footsteps fading down the corridor, fate had already begun to weave a story for the two brothers who had just entered the world under the trembling glow of half-dying light.
_____
Outside the labor room, the night had stretched thin like a worn-out thread.
The fluorescent lights above flickered unevenly, casting pale halos over the tiled floor, where time itself seemed frozen. A soft hum from the air conditioner mixed with the distant, muffled cries from the labor room — cries that carried the sound of both pain and hope.
Three figures occupied the waiting room, each swallowed by their own silence.
On the far bench sat an old woman whose silver hair glowed faintly beneath the cold light. She was too frail to pace like the others, but her eyes — sharp despite their age — trembled with anxiety. The skin beneath them was heavy with exhaustion, forming dark crescents that spoke of many sleepless nights. She had dozed off briefly, only to be startled awake when the cries of a woman in labor pierced the quiet hall. Ever since, her hands had remained clasped tightly around her prayer beads, her lips moving silently — though no sound escaped.
Next to her sat a young woman in her mid-twenties, fidgeting restlessly. Her long, curled hair had loosened from its tie, falling across her shoulders in wild strands. Her foot tapped against the floor in a constant rhythm, as if counting down the seconds until the door would open. There was something haunting about her posture — the way she sat stiffly, her shoulders tense, her eyes darting toward the red-lit sign above the labor room every few seconds.
She looked like a ghost bound by worry, trapped between dread and anticipation.
Her face bore a striking resemblance to the woman inside the room — same eyes, same delicate jawline — only younger, softer. The ring on her middle finger glimmered faintly, a sign of a life still waiting to unfold. When the first baby's cry broke through the walls, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Relief and fear collided in her eyes like lightning meeting water.
"It's out," she whispered, breath trembling. But as the second cry followed — sharper, louder — her color drained again. She didn't move. She only stared at the red light above the door, willing it to turn green, to go out, to give her permission to breathe again.
The third figure in the room was a man — the one pacing the narrow space like a caged animal. His dark hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness. The lines on his face deepened each time he turned back and forth. He had long stopped caring about appearances. Every now and then, he would run a trembling hand through his hair or bite his fingernails without realizing it.
That was Xiao Chang'er — husband to the woman in labor, father to the two lives struggling into existence.
His heart was pounding too loudly for him to hear the whispers of comfort the nurses had left behind.
"Chang'er," the old woman said at last, her tone sharp with both worry and fatigue. "Stop pacing. You're blurring my vision with all that movement."
He didn't stop. Didn't even look at her. His mind was elsewhere — behind that door, with the stubborn woman who had once laughed at danger, who had refused to terminate her pregnancy even when warned that her body might not survive it.
He remembered her exact words: 'If one of us must die, I'd rather it be me. The babies deserve a chance to live.'
His throat tightened. The cries of the newborns should have comforted him, but all he felt was dread. Were they safe? Was she safe? He clenched his fists, whispering her name under his breath, like a prayer.
Six Months Earlier
The world had been brighter then.
The sky over the Xiao residence had been painted with soft spring colors, and laughter had come easily to the couple.
Xiao Chang'er and his wife, Yang LianLu, had just returned from their routine prenatal appointment. The doctor had confirmed what they already suspected — twins. They had laughed until tears filled their eyes. They didn't care about gender or looks; to them, life itself was the blessing.
That evening, sunlight poured through their living room, turning the curtains gold. LianLu had stood by the window, one hand resting lightly on her barely noticeable belly. Chang'er had been busy scribbling names in a notebook, determined to find the perfect ones for their children.
"Even if they come out with big noses or crooked smiles," he'd teased, "we'll still love them like they're the emperors of heaven."
She had laughed softly, her eyes glowing with quiet affection. "As long as they're alive, that's all I want."
But fate rarely listens to gentle wishes.
It happened on an ordinary weekday afternoon.
LianLu, who worked as an office clerk, was carrying a box of heavy files to the storeroom. Her pregnancy was still a secret — her belly small, her steps steady. No one knew, not even her closest colleagues.
One woman, Xu Bai — a rival more out of pride than malice — had chosen that moment to tease her.
"Careful, Miss Perfect," Xu Bai had said mockingly, brushing past her. "You wouldn't want to trip over your own self-importance."
The shove came too suddenly. The box tilted.
A flash of pain.
A cry.
LianLu's knees buckled as she clutched her stomach, her voice breaking, "Help! My babies—"
The room froze. The laughter died instantly. Xu Bai's face turned ghost-white as she saw the red stream trickling down LianLu's legs, staining the cold floor. Panic spread. Someone screamed for help. Someone else called for an ambulance.
When LianLu woke again, everything was white — the walls, the sheets, the light. Her vision blurred, but slowly, the shape of her sister came into focus.
"Are you awake?" LianLan's soft voice was laced with worry, but her smile tried to stay brave.
LianLu blinked. Her throat was dry. She turned her head slightly, seeing the medical equipment — the infusion pump's quiet rhythm, the slow beep of the monitor, the faint smell of alcohol and antiseptic.
"Where's Chang'er?" she croaked.
"In the police station…" her sister said carefully.
Her heart skipped. "The police station? Why?"
Before she could move, LianLan pressed her shoulders back against the bed. "Don't sit up! The doctor said you need absolute rest. You might lose the babies if you strain yourself. You're on bed rest for at least a month — they need to monitor the situation."
But LianLu's mind was already racing. "Why is he in the station?"
LianLan sighed. "He's arresting that bitch who pushed you. Xu Bai. You almost lost the twins because of her."
"Xu Bai?" LianLu murmured. "Three years… prison?"
"Yes," her sister said, lowering her gaze. "Brother-in-law wanted her charged with assault. She's lucky he didn't tell Mother — or she'd never see daylight again. He said three years was being considerate."
LianLu closed her eyes, exhaling softly. Chang'er, you still haven't changed…
"How long have I been asleep?"
"Almost a week," LianLan replied gently. "If you'd slept one more day, it'd make eight."
"Seven days is enough for me to return to work," LianLu muttered, half to herself.
Her sister chuckled. "Still, brother-in-law won't be happy hearing that—"
Her words were cut off by the sudden slam of the door.
Both women turned, startled, as a familiar figure strode in — tall, slightly disheveled, but smiling as though he'd just seen the sun after a storm.
"LianLu," he said softly, eyes bright. "You're awake."
She smiled faintly. "Mn, not too long ago."
In that moment, as their eyes met, the hum of machines faded, and the faint scent of spring rain drifted through the half-open window — a quiet promise that life, fragile as it was, still endured.
___
The months that followed were nothing short of torment.
For Yang LianLu, time had lost its meaning. Each day was a long stretch of agony, each night an endless battle against pain that came in waves — deep, clawing, merciless pain that tore through her from the inside. It wasn't labor, not yet, but it felt like she was being torn apart by invisible hands.
She still had five months before her due date. Five long months that should have been filled with laughter, names, and baby clothes. Instead, the hospital had become her second home — sterile walls, white sheets, and the faint hum of machines her only companions.
Some mornings she woke to the sound of rain tapping gently against the window, praying it would wash away her pain. Other days, the air was so still she could hear her own heartbeat echo in her chest, uneven and slow.
Her husband, Xiao Chang'er, came every day — sometimes with flowers, sometimes with soup, always with a forced smile. But behind that smile was fear, sharp and unrelenting. He would sit by her bed, holding her hand in silence while the clock ticked too loudly in the corner.
The doctors had said nothing certain. "Observation," they'd said. "Stabilization," they'd said. Words that sounded like hope, but carried the emptiness of delay.
But on that day — that one afternoon where the hospital corridor smelled faintly of disinfectant and sorrow — Chang'er was summoned.
The doctor's office was small, lined with cold steel cabinets and framed certificates that gleamed under the fluorescent light. A faint buzz from the ceiling lamp filled the pauses between words. The air was heavy, and even before the doctor spoke, Chang'er could feel something clawing at his chest.
He stood rigid, his fingers twitching as he tried to appear calm, but the veins in his neck betrayed the truth.
"Doctor," he began, voice low but trembling. "What's wrong with my wife?"
The doctor, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, didn't answer immediately. He adjusted his glasses, exhaled slowly, and looked at the floor — as though searching for a gentler way to wound.
"I'm afraid we…" he began, then stopped. His hand reached for the edge of the table, tightening as he sighed.
Chang'er's heart skipped. The silence stretched too long. Every tick of the wall clock sounded like a hammer against his ribs.
"Doctor," he said again, his tone sharper now. "Please. Tell me. What happened to her?"
The doctor's eyes finally met his. They were steady, but filled with pity.
"I'm afraid your wife has a serious case of uterine rupture," he said quietly. "The condition is… dangerous. Both mother and children are at risk."
The world tilted. For a heartbeat, Chang'er didn't understand the words.
"What do you mean—at risk?" he asked, though part of him already knew.
The doctor hesitated. His voice grew softer, each word heavier than the last. "We can only save one life, Mr. Xiao. Either your wife… or the child."
Silence.
The fluorescent light above them flickered faintly, casting shifting shadows across the doctor's face. The hum of the machines outside seemed louder now, almost deafening.
Chang'er stumbled backward until his back hit the wall. His breath came out in short, uneven gasps. His mind reeled — images flashing in quick succession: LianLu's smile under the morning sun, the way she pressed his hand to her belly the first time she felt a kick, the promise they made to see their children grow.
Save one and let one die.
The words echoed in his skull like a cruel chant.
"No…" he muttered, shaking his head slowly. "No, there has to be another way. She's strong. She can—"
The doctor's expression didn't change. His silence was answer enough.
Chang'er's hands clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white. The sterile air burned his lungs.
Outside, the world went on as usual — nurses walking briskly, the soft squeak of shoes against tile, a baby's cry in the distance. But for him, time had stopped.
All the color drained from his face. He felt as if someone had reached into his chest and torn out the light that had once lived there. The hope he'd built, the joy he'd guarded, shattered in an instant.
He slid down the wall, his knees hitting the floor, the doctor's voice fading into a blur.
All he could see was her — lying in that hospital bed, pale and fragile, still smiling whenever he entered the room. And all he could hear were her words from months ago, spoken with quiet defiance:
"If one of us must die, I'd rather it be me."
He had laughed then, brushed it off, kissed her forehead, told her not to speak like that.
Now those words came back to haunt him.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, his breath catching in his throat. "No," he whispered into the hollow silence. "No… you can't take her from me."
The rain began to fall outside, soft at first, then harder — the sound of the world weeping with him.
___
The days that followed blurred into a quiet torment — hospitals, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the sterile scent of disinfectant. Occasionally, LianLu was taken to the hospital with her younger sister, LianLan, who often sat beside her, brushing her hair back with trembling fingers. The white corridors always felt colder when LianLan was there; she would stare blankly at the posters on the wall while listening to the soft beeps of the machines connected to her sister. It was the sound of life fighting to stay.
Outside, the skies often reflected their despair. It rained more frequently now — soft drizzles that left the streets glazed with silver, and thunder that echoed faintly like a distant cry. When the rain ceased, the smell of wet earth drifted into the ward, mingling with the sharp scent of antiseptic. Sometimes, Chang'er would stand by the window, watching the rain trace paths down the glass, his reflection pale and hollow-eyed. His heart, once steady as stone, now trembled with every sigh that came from his wife's lips.
The once peaceful home they shared had turned into a place of endless argument and emotional wreckage. Words became weapons; love turned into a battlefield. Every discussion about the babies ended with tears or silence.
LianLu wanted to keep them. Her babies.
She was fragile and in pain, yet every time someone suggested ending the pregnancy, her voice would rise with a quiet but unshakable conviction. "They are already alive," she'd whisper, clutching her belly as if holding the tiny souls within. "If I die, let it be for them." There was a faint glow in her eyes whenever she spoke about them — two little lights that made her endure the nights of stabbing pain.
Chang'er, however, couldn't bear the thought of losing her. He paced the length of their bedroom at night, the sound of rain tapping the windows while he argued with himself. To him, love was her — her laughter, her sleepy voice in the morning, the warmth of her hand. He could not imagine a world where she was gone. "We can try again," he would say, voice breaking, "We can make more children. But there is only one you, Lu'er. Only one."
Their quarrels grew sharper, cutting deep. The soft glow of lamps in their home often witnessed her tears and his frustration. LianLan, the younger sister, became the silent observer of their slow unraveling — watching as love and fear tore them apart.
And yet, even in her weakness, LianLu knew her husband's heart better than anyone. She knew the way to calm him was not with logic, but with tenderness. One evening, when the wind howled through the half-open windows and her body was trembling from pain, she reached for his hand.
"Chang'er," she said softly, her fingers cold against his. "Do you remember when we planted those lilies in spring?"
He looked at her, eyes shadowed, uncertain.
"They almost died in the storm," she continued, smiling faintly despite the pain. "But they lived because you built that little shelter around them. You didn't destroy them because they were weak—you protected them."
Her words sank deep, slow as rain soaking into dry soil.
"These babies," she whispered, resting his hand on her belly, "are our lilies. Let me protect them... even if it costs me."
Chang'er's eyes glistened as silence filled the room. The faint ticking of the clock sounded like the beat of a fragile heart. The night outside stretched endlessly, and in its stillness, he broke — the walls around his resolve crumbling.
By morning, he no longer argued. He sat by her bedside, brushing his fingers through her hair, whispering broken prayers into the dawn light. LianLu had won—not by defiance, but by love.
And though she smiled faintly in her sleep, the air in the room felt heavy, as if heaven itself was holding its breath, waiting to see whether that love would save her… or destroy her.
____
The door slid open with a faint metallic hiss, followed by the rush of footsteps. Nurses streamed out from the labor room like soldiers returning from a brutal battlefield — their uniforms slightly creased, masks pulled down, and exhaustion mingled with relief in their eyes. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the faint coppery trace of blood and the sterile chill of the hospital corridor. Outside, the world was silent except for the soft hum of the ceiling fans and the whisper of prayers murmured under trembling breaths.
Then came the doctor. His gloves were off, his cap slightly tilted, and though his steps were steady, his expression carried the weight of what had just transpired. The hallway, once bustling, fell into a hush as all eyes turned toward him — a family caught between hope and dread.
"How's my wife?" Chang'er's voice cracked the silence like lightning across a night sky. His hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. He could barely breathe; his chest felt like a drum echoing with panic. He didn't care about the babies — not yet, not now. The only name that existed in his mind was hers. LianLu.
The doctor gave a long exhale, removing his cap and rubbing the back of his neck. Then, for the first time that day, he smiled — a weary, genuine smile that melted the ice in everyone's hearts.
"It's a miracle indeed," he said, voice low but filled with awe. "Your wife… she truly believes in her babies. This is one of the rarest cases I've ever handled. No surgery, no complications during delivery — just sheer will and, perhaps, a touch of grace. She fought through something that would've broken most women."
The words lingered in the air like incense.
Chang'er's shoulders slumped with relief, tears springing to his eyes before he could hide them. He pressed a trembling hand against his face and let out a shaky laugh — a sound that was part sob, part disbelief.
"She's resting now in the recovery ward," the doctor continued gently. "Please, don't disturb her for at least two weeks. Her body needs time to heal. She's endured enough pain for ten lifetimes tonight."
A chorus of sighs filled the corridor — the collective breath of a family that had been holding onto hope with bruised hearts. Even the air itself seemed to lighten, like a window had opened and let the sunlight back in.
Then came the next question, fragile and trembling.
"Then… what about the babies?" It was the old lady — LianLu's mother — her voice thin but eager, her hands clutching her prayer beads tightly.
The doctor's smile deepened, softening the worry lines on his face. "They're fine," he said warmly. Then, raising his voice just slightly, he announced with the joy of a man who had seen life conquer death:
"Congratulations! You've been blessed with twins!"
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then laughter — light, tearful, unbelieving — rippled through the hall. Even though they had known she was carrying twins, hearing it aloud felt like a divine declaration.
LianLan's face lit up instantly. "Can we see them?" she blurted out, unable to hold back her excitement. Her voice carried that mix of childlike wonder and awe only new life could bring.
"Of course," the doctor said, motioning toward the nursery. "This way."
The corridor stretched before them, polished floors gleaming beneath the soft overhead lights. As they walked, the tension that had strangled their hearts began to ease. The soft coos of babies and the gentle hum of lullabies playing from the nursery monitors reached their ears, a sound sweeter than music.
When they reached the glass window, the family leaned in eagerly. Inside, under the gentle glow of the heater lamps, lay two tiny bundles wrapped in powder-blue blankets. The twins slept peacefully — one's little fist curled against his cheek, the other's lips moving slightly as if dreaming. Their chests rose and fell in rhythm, soft as butterfly wings.
LianLan pressed her hand against the glass, her reflection trembling with emotion. "They're boys," she whispered with a smile tugging at her lips. "Beautiful boys." A quiet laugh escaped her, the kind that carried joy and disbelief. "They already look spoiled — must be because they've got a nice auntie."
Her mother laughed too, wiping at her eyes with the edge of her scarf. "Boys! I knew it," she said proudly, her voice quivering with joy. "I'm finally a grandmother." Her eyes glistened as she gazed at the twins. "My lovely grandsons… strong and alive."
She clasped her hands together and whispered a prayer of gratitude, the beads clicking softly between her fingers.
As the family lingered by the nursery, watching the rise and fall of those two fragile bodies, it felt as though time had paused — all the pain, fear, and sleepless nights swept away by the sight of new life.
And somewhere in the quiet of the recovery room, LianLu stirred in her sleep — her lips curving faintly, as if she could already hear the laughter of her sons echoing through the world she had almost left behind.