In her room, her body already rested under a light blanket — but her mind... not yet.
Yuyan stood up slowly, walked to the small desk in the corner, and turned on her laptop. The screen's glow gently lit her features.
The writing platform was still open, as if it had been waiting for her.
At the top, the now familiar pen name: "Silent Flower."
She spent a few seconds just watching the blinking cursor on the blank page. Then, without thinking too much, she began to type:
"She didn't know when it began. Maybe it was in the simple gesture of someone offering silence — not demands. Or in the way he looked at her, without trying to decipher. Just looked. As if accepting what she herself didn't yet know how to give.
It was just a ride. Just a bowl of soup. Just a shared glance between a teacup and a 'good night.' But her heart... it recognized something there. Something that wasn't said — only heard."
She paused. Read slowly. And before doubt could set in, she clicked "Publish."
The notification appeared in the lower corner:
Your new chapter is now live.
Yuyan leaned back in her chair. Closed her eyes for a moment.
Outside, the night wind stirred the leaves. And inside, between tea, memories, and typed words, something began to bloom — slowly, but with deep roots.
The next morning, the hospital woke slowly, like a massive body stretching after too long a night. The morning light streamed obliquely through the corridor windows, drawing pale stripes on the vinyl floor. Yuyan walked with soft steps, her thoughts still drifting between dream and waking.
Her lab coat carried the subtle scent of chrysanthemum tea — prepared by her mother, as always — and the muffled beeping seemed less hurried that day. It was a shift without major urgencies. And sometimes, that hurt more: slow time allowed the heart to feel more sharply.
She stopped in front of room 407. Knocked gently.
— Come in, pretty girl — said a trembling but steady voice.
It was Mrs. Qian. Her hair thinner since her last hospitalization, but the smile still lit a glow in her eyes. Sitting, a light shawl over her shoulders, she held an open book in her lap — not reading, just keeping it close, as if it were company.
Yuyan approached slowly. Touched the patient's pulse with warm fingers, measured her blood pressure in silence.
— I brought tea — she said, handing her a small thermos. — Not from the hospital. From home. With ginger... and longing.
The woman smiled, eyes moist.
— I always knew you care beyond what's required.
Yuyan only adjusted the pillow with a quiet gesture — the kind that touches more than just the body.
As she left, she carried with her a kind of presence that lingers even after the door closes.
She continued to the pediatric wing.
In bed 12, Yue slept with the teddy bear still clutched to her chest. The sheet still bore the folds from yesterday. On the nightstand: colored drawings, an open box of pencils, and the same old notebook.
Yuyan didn't want to wake her. She simply left a bookmark between the pages — it had a little moon embroidered on it.
"Sometimes, the light comes from within."
Before leaving, she stood for a few seconds just looking at the girl's peaceful face.
There was an old wound there. A childhood interrupted. The silence of someone left behind too soon.
Yuyan knew that kind of silence well. And perhaps that's why... she knew how to listen to it so well.
By nearly noon, she found Xiaoqing in the cafeteria.
Her friend was already waiting at their usual table by the window, fanning her face with a napkin, feigning indignation:
— Took you long enough. I thought you'd been kidnapped by a seductive patient file.
Yuyan chuckled softly, taking the seat across from her.
— I visited Mrs. Qian and Yue. They were sleeping with that kind of peace that feels borrowed from another time.
— They're lucky to have you — said Xiaoqing, biting into a piece of tofu. — And I'm lucky to have lunch with you on my lucky days. Because seriously... the cafeteria is a poem today.
Yuyan looked at the tray: rice, light soup, and two slices of cucumber with sesame.
Simple. But comforting.
— Yeah... today the world is kind.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Xiaoqing spoke:
— You're pensive. Did something happen?
Yuyan nodded slowly.
— I've just been hearing things that aren't being said.
Xiaoqing smiled tenderly:
— That sounds exactly like you. But take care, okay? Sometimes, hearing what's not said hurts more than hearing what is.
Yuyan didn't answer. She just smiled faintly and took a sip of tea.
Something inside her seemed to be preparing — though she didn't yet know for what.
Outside, the hospital kept its rhythm — as if breathing alongside them.
The spoon froze midair.
The voice of the receptionist rang through the loudspeaker, tearing through the silence of the cafeteria:
— Nursing, to the ER. Emergency arrival. Unconscious male, fall on university campus. Suspected trauma. Room 2.