The morning was gray, but the hospital seemed to breathe more gently that Monday. The sound of beeping monitors, hurried footsteps, papers sliding across clipboards… everything felt softer. As if even urgency had learned how to wait.
In room 312, Wen Zhaonan slept. His bandaged left arm rested on the white sheet, and a discreet dressing covered the side of his forehead. Beside the bed, an IV bag dripped patiently. His breathing was calm, though still marked by subtle irregularities.
Two doctors spoke in hushed tones near the half-open door.
— No serious neurological trauma. A minor ankle fracture, some abrasions… he'll need complete rest for a few weeks, but he's out of danger — said one, flipping through the chart.
— Good thing the tests confirmed that. With that kind of fall…
— He was lucky. Or maybe someone up there still wants to see him keep teaching.
Yuyan overheard part of the conversation. She stood by the window, recording the latest data in the digital chart. Her movements were steady. Her gaze, focused. No emotion showed — only the usual care, the same she offered to every patient.
With a stethoscope around her neck and a calm expression, she adjusted Wen's pillow with a careful gesture, just as she would for anyone else. She checked his temperature, adjusted the bed height, replaced the water in the jug. All in silence. All with the professionalism that had always protected her.
As Yuyan turned to leave the room, she nearly bumped into a tall man standing at the doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of his white coat. His expression was kind, though his tired eyes revealed a sleepless night — and a kind of concern that didn't need words.
— You must be Yuyan, right? — he said with a brief smile.— I'm Li Cheng. Pharmacology professor. And… I've been a friend of Wen's for quite a while.
His tone was simple, free of forced formalities.
— Nice to meet you — she replied with a slight nod, stepping back out of politeness.
Xiaoqing approached slowly, curious, and extended her hand in a casual gesture.
— Xiaoqing — she said, with a sideways smile.— Also a nurse. Also curious.
Li let out a soft laugh, nothing exaggerated.— I can imagine. And with good reason. Look… he'll keep sleeping for a few more hours, so… if you have a few minutes, I'd like to invite you both for a coffee. Nothing special. I just thought maybe it's time to share a little of what came before all this.
Yuyan exchanged a silent glance with Xiaoqing.Her friend nodded, with that half-smile that said: let's listen.
— We can — Yuyan replied softly.
And the three of them walked down the corridor, like people carrying something that still had no name — but was already a weight on the chest.
The hospital café was on the second floor, with a wide view of the inner garden where freshly pruned magnolias stood resilient against the gray weather. Unlike the rest of the building, the space was surprisingly welcoming — spacious, with light wooden floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and well-spaced tables that allowed for quiet conversation. The light fixtures hung like modern lanterns, bathing the room in a warm, almost homely glow.
The aroma of fresh coffee mingled with that of just-baked bread, and the background music was a soft piano, nearly imperceptible — more emotional suggestion than sound.
They chose a table near the glass, where the fine rain traced irregular lines across the garden.
Li ordered a strong black coffee, no sugar. Xiaoqing chose a cappuccino, with a hint of cinnamon. Yuyan asked for chrysanthemum tea, as always — perhaps out of habit, or perhaps from a need for some kind of constancy.
The cups arrived in silence.
Li wrapped his hands around his, as if searching for something in the warmth of the coffee before beginning to speak.
— Wen… doesn't talk about this with anyone — he said slowly, staring into the dark liquid that quivered slightly in the porcelain.
— But I've known his story since before university. Some parts he told me himself. Others… I came to understand over time.
Yuyan and Xiaoqing said nothing. They just listened.
— He was abandoned as a baby. Left at the gates of a temple, with an unsigned note and no other clue. The monks cared for him for a while, but he was soon transferred to a public orphanage in Hangzhou. He was only a few months old. And no one ever came back for him.
Outside, the rain began to fall harder, dripping from the thick leaves of the magnolia trees.
— He grew up in a harsh environment. The orphanage was big, noisy… and lonely. Not because there weren't people, but because there was too much indifference. Children came and went. But he was always there. Always quiet. Always watching.
Li paused for a moment, as if replaying those images inside his own memory.
— At four, no one wanted to play with him. At five, he was reading medication labels out loud. At seven, he corrected the math of a volunteer giving basic lessons. And by nine… he was reading science books most adults couldn't fully understand.
Yuyan kept her eyes fixed on her cup. Her hands rested on her knees, motionless.
— One of the volunteers who taught there noticed what no one else had. He called a friend, then another… and soon the word spread: an orphan boy with a photographic memory, advanced logical thinking, and a thirst for learning that seemed endless.
Li smiled faintly, a mix of pride and sorrow in his eyes.
— They gave him books, then tablets. Gave him complex problems, simulations, games… and he devoured it all. Not with arrogance. Just with hunger. A hunger to understand. To find order in the world. Maybe… because his own life had never had any.
— What they didn't give him was what he had never known — affection and family. He was exceptional, yes. But never quite enough to be someone's child.
Xiaoqing let out a quiet sigh. The steam from her cappuccino rose in front of her face, but her eyes were now fixed on the rain.
— At eleven, he passed the entrance exams for a boarding school for gifted students. Full scholarship. By thirteen, he was publishing scientific summaries on online forums under a pseudonym. At fifteen, he was invited to participate in chemistry and biology olympiads in other provinces. He won them all.
Li turned to Yuyan.
— But even with all of that… he still went back to the orphanage during the holidays. No home. No family. No one waiting for him at the school gates. Always alone. No birthdays.
A longer silence settled over them.
The kind of silence that weighs.
Yuyan blinked slowly. Li's words seemed to pour into her with the same gentleness as the rain on the glass.
A silent tear rolled down her cheek. It wasn't held back. But it also wasn't explained.
She simply let it fall.Because in that moment… there was no more reason to hold it back.
Li stared into the bottom of his cup as if reading an ancient map. Then, he continued:
— At sixteen, Wen passed the national university entrance exam — first place. With one of the highest scores of the decade.
He smiled softly, without pride — just memory.
— That's when we met. I was in my second year. And I still remember the first time he walked into the lab… thin, quiet, his glasses slightly crooked, and a notebook in hand. He didn't look like someone about to change the world. But… he was.
Xiaoqing rested her chin in her hand, eyes fixed on the misty windowpane.
— I used to try starting conversations, but he only ever answered what was necessary. Never rude — just… reserved. As if silence had become part of his body. Eventually, I realized: he didn't talk much because he was always listening. Even to what we tried to hide.
Li paused, taking another sip of his now-lukewarm coffee.
— We shared a dorm for two years. He was always studying. Always writing. Sometimes, I'd see him on the rooftop at night, looking up at the sky like he was searching for something that didn't exist in books. I never asked what.
Yuyan remained silent, but there was something different about her expression — as if, little by little, a veil was being lifted from the image she had of him.
— One day, in our second year, he fell in love. Or… tried to. She was a med student. Kind. Attentive. She seemed to see what no one else noticed in him. And he, even without knowing how to handle it, began to open up.
He paused briefly. The sound of the rain on the window seemed clearer now.
— She used to say he made biochemistry sound like poetry. She'd ask for help with her coursework. Laugh at the way he compared enzymes to constellations. And he… believed her.
Xiaoqing tilted her head, listening closely.
— I'd never seen Wen so… light. He would come back from their conversations with a spark in his eyes. He'd write metaphors on loose sheets of paper. He even rehearsed buying flowers once. But before he could give them to her… he overheard something.
Li rested his elbows on the table but didn't look at either of them. His gaze had drifted far away.
— Her voice. In the hallway. Laughing with a friend.
"Of course I'm with him. He's brilliant. Helps me with everything. But fall in love? With that type? Not a chance.""But he's kind…""Exactly. The kind ones are the easiest to manipulate."
Yuyan closed her eyes for a moment. As if the cruelty still echoed in the air.
— He didn't say anything. Didn't confront her. He just went back to his room. Sat there for hours, staring at the blank screen of his computer. After that… he never said her name again. Or anyone's.
Li slowly lifted his gaze. Now there was something heavier in his voice.
— He threw away the pages filled with poems. The poetry books. The card he had written. Buried it all at once. Like someone who knows that love, sometimes, is just a miscalculation.
Xiaoqing bit her lower lip, thoughtful. Yuyan said nothing. But in her eyes, something had begun to dissolve — like a soft mist giving way to winter sunlight.
Li smiled gently, despite the weight of the memory.He ran a hand through his hair in a distracted gesture, like someone returning from far away.
— After that… he poured everything into his work. Went straight into a master's program, then a PhD in record time. Professors said they'd never seen someone so young understand the invisible so deeply. Not just the chemical processes… but also the silences between them.
He smiled faintly, without arrogance.
— By twenty-nine, he was already a tenured professor. Today, he gives lectures abroad, leads projects that become international references. He's a respected name in everything he does. But if you ask him, he'll say he just got lucky. Or that he still has a lot to learn.
Xiaoqing shook her head, impressed. Yuyan just listened — her gaze steady yet soft, like someone collecting words with care.
Then Li leaned forward over the table, in a gesture that felt closer, almost intimate.
— There was a moment, a few years ago, when my parents… tried to arrange a marriage for him.
Xiaoqing raised an eyebrow.
— And?
Li gave a brief, almost nostalgic laugh.
— It was a disaster. He was polite. Listened to everything. Met the girl. But in the end… he simply said, "I can't love out of expectation. Only out of recognition." And walked away.
He paused, letting the words haunt the silence.
— Since then, they've never brought it up again.
The sound of the rain outside had become a melody. Each drop seemed to match the slow rhythm of that confession.
— What few people know — and you won't find this in any résumé — is that Wen never stopped giving back what he once received. He just does it in secret.
Yuyan slightly raised her head, attentive.
— For years, he's been financially supporting an orphanage in Hangzhou. The same one where he grew up. Helps with repairs, buys uniforms, books. Always anonymously. He even donates old university computers, refurbished by himself.
Xiaoqing let out a quiet sigh.
— No one knows?
— Some suspect. But he's never confirmed it. And more than that — every year, he chooses a few university students who are struggling financially. He helps with transportation, food, even room rent.
Li took a sip of his coffee.
— When I asked why he did it in secret, he said: "Because I don't know how to deal with gratitude. I only ever learned how to give."
Yuyan closed her eyes for a second. That sentence pierced through her like something too old to be new — and too new to have a name.
Then Li looked at her. No rush. No pressure.
— He's surrounded by respect. But he's still alone. Not out of pride. But out of habit.
Silence.
Xiaoqing gripped her cup with both hands. There was something in her eyes too — an admiration that went beyond curiosity. A kind of quiet reverence.
Yuyan didn't say a word. But now, her gaze had changed.
The end of the shift arrived like the last notes of a soft song — unhurried, yet filled with the melancholy of not wanting it to end. Yuyan saved the files in the digital chart, took off her ID badge, and pinned her hair back with a loose bobby pin. The hospital was slowly falling asleep: corridor lights dimmed, voices faded, footsteps slowed.
She made her way downstairs calmly. She was almost at the exit when something stopped her.
It wasn't a clear thought.
It was a quiet impulse.
Her feet carried her back to the third floor.
The clinical ward corridor was empty. A monitor beeped softly in a distant room, like a gentle reminder that life there never truly stopped.
She stopped in front of room 312.
Pushed the door gently.
The room was dim. The soft, indirect lights painted delicate shadows on the walls, and the air carried that familiar nighttime hospital scent — disinfectant, cotton, and a faint trace of jasmine coming from somewhere she couldn't name.
Wen Zhaonan was there.
Alone. As he had always been.
Lying with the blanket pulled up to his waist, his left arm still immobilized, and his ankle slightly elevated. His eyes were closed, but his face… seemed calmer. As if sleep had offered him a brief refuge from the world.
Yuyan took two steps inside. Just enough to reach the bedside. She checked the IV, gently adjusted the tilt of his pillow. Every gesture light, precise — as always.
She was about to leave when she felt it.
His eyes.
Awake.
Just barely open, still heavy with fatigue — but conscious.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The silence between them was thick. As if even the air was waiting for what might come.
Then Wen murmured, his voice hoarse, almost imperceptible:
— Thank you…
And closed his eyes again.
Effortlessly. Without ceremony.
Yuyan remained there, motionless.
Her heart… beat louder. Not dramatically. Just louder.
She didn't reply. She didn't need to.
She gave him one last look — the kind of look one gives a precious book when closing it. Not because the story is over, but because that chapter… needs to rest.
As she left the room, the corridor felt different.
The night wrapped around her with its slow, steady breath. And as Yuyan walked home, her steps were calm — but inside, everything was shifting.
It wasn't romance.Not yet.It was something more subtle. Deeper.It was recognition.And sometimes, that's what teaches us first what love truly is.
Later that night, already home, with a cup of tea in her hands and the silence of dawn resting gently on her shoulders, Lin Yuyan opened her notebook. The screen lit up her features softly. She opened the tab of the platform and, without hesitation, began to type.
The words came as if they had been waiting for her:
"Some people don't grow up surrounded by arms. They grow up with silence. With absence. With unanswered questions. But one day… someone sees them. Not because they're searching — but because they recognize."
She read it aloud, quietly.
Then clicked publish.
And for a brief moment, as the blinking cursor disappeared from the screen, she felt as if she too had been written that night — by someone who, without knowing her name, had already begun to hear her from within.