WebNovels

Chapter 28 - After the “Yes”

The hospital corridor held a kind of silence that only exists after six in the evening: footsteps thinning out, gurneys returning empty, the faint clink of a tray in the distance. Yuyan slipped off her smock slowly and ran her thumb over the thin ring. The engraving inside—four words—seemed to warm the metal.

She pushed open the door to the break room. Inside, a yellow lamp and the discreet scent of chrysanthemum tea. Xiaoqing was bent over a chart, chewing on the cap of her pen like always.

— Xiaoqing…

Her friend looked up and, before she could even ask, saw her eyes shining in a way Yuyan couldn't hide.

— Hm? Tell me.

Yuyan tried to start at the beginning, but the sentence broke in half, like someone whispering something to her own breath.

— He… asked.

Xiaoqing blinked, dropped the pen, and brought a hand to her mouth.

— No. No! — she came closer in an easy little leap, laughter already thickening her voice. — Let me see.

Yuyan held out her hand. The lamp's soft light made the tiny plum blossom glint.

— It's… it's beautiful — said Xiaoqing, brushing it with her fingertips. — It's so you two.

— I said "yes" — Yuyan murmured, as if confirming a vow to herself.

— You said "yes" — her friend echoed, giving her hand back carefully, like returning a bird. — I promised I wouldn't cry… — she sniffled lightly. — When do we start planning?

Yuyan laughed, surprised by her own lightness.

— I don't even know where to start. I'm afraid of getting it wrong, of being… too much. The job, people…

— Hey — Xiaoqing met her eyes. — Nobody's born knowing. We learn as we walk. And you're not walking alone. Let me be your maid of honor?

— You always have been — Yuyan answered, and their hug was the size of a small kitchen on a good day.

They stayed quiet for a while, listening to the hospital breathe. When they left, Yuyan had the sensation that the word "yes" was also a verb learned by gestures.

At home, the night was simple: a pot of soup, the smell of cilantro, fogged windows. Meilan chopped slowly, like someone at prayer. Yuyan set down her bag, took off her shoes by the door, and paused a second, gathering the right breath for the words.

— Mom…

— Yes, my daughter? — Meilan didn't lift her eyes, but the way she answered brought her full attention.

— Professor Wen… — she smiled with modesty and courage in equal measure — asked for my hand.

Meilan's fingers halted for an instant over the board. Then she set the knife down, wiped her hand on a towel, and looked at her daughter with a serenity that felt like home.

— And you? — she asked, though she already knew.

— I said "yes."

Her mother's smile came from inside, like lighting a familiar lantern.

— I'd already heard that "yes" in the way you came home — she said, stepping closer. — May I see?

Yuyan held out her hand. Meilan tilted her head: the shine of the metal, the tiny plum blossom, the engraving inside.

— Delicate like you — she said. — And steady like him.

— I'm afraid I won't know how to do things right. The choices, the lists, the details… — Yuyan rested her fingers on the cool counter and laughed, a little embarrassed. — It feels like there's a map everyone already knows and I don't.

— The only map that matters we embroider ourselves — her mother said, opening the bottom drawer. She took out a worn little box. — From your grandmother. I kept it for when a "yes" asked for company.

Inside lay a silver brooch with a small flower. The metal carried the marks of time that didn't weaken the design; on the contrary, they made it more alive.

— "Something borrowed" — Meilan explained, as if reciting a tradition she herself had invented. — And a handkerchief. We'll embroider it together. A plum branch and four words.

— "I hear you" — Yuyan finished, and the certainty of the phrase straightened her from within.

— Yes. The rest we improvise with tea and calm.

The soup reached the right simmer. Meilan served two bowls, blew on hers gently, and watched her daughter with that weightless pride. They talked about practical things—on-call dates, the timing of the bloom, the size of a pocketable invitation—but always with the sense that choosing the tone came first.

In the end, Meilan touched Yuyan's face with her fingertips.

— You look beautiful — she said, as one states the obvious. — And peaceful.

— I am — Yuyan answered, surprised not to be pretending.

On campus, the night air carried the smell of wet leaves and vending-machine coffee. Li Cheng appeared in the corridor with two cups.

— Guess what the machine decided to call "cappuccino" today — he said, with the easy comedy that undoes silences.

Wen leaned against the window, hands in his blazer pockets. He had a way of being fully in the present.

— It happened — he said, without suspense.

— It happened… — Li repeated, tasting the word like a new candy. — Did she say it?

— She did — Wen smiled briefly. — Softly. Enough to turn into home.

— I knew it — Li snorted a laugh and offered one cup. — Not by divination, more by romantic statistics. And then…?

— Then we'll start slowly — Wen answered. — Small. Nothing that shouts. I want to play for her. Just a little. Time it with a plum blossom.

— You play, I'll handle the rest — Li drew an invisible list in the air. — Venue, sound, our camera friend who doesn't turn everything into a photo shoot. And a handkerchief for you.

— A handkerchief?

— You're going to cry — Li assured him, clinking his cup. — We pretend we won't, but we will.

Wen nodded, knowing it was true. They lingered a bit, talking about the usual things—classes, deadlines, a stubborn article—but it was as if everything had changed temperature.

Before they left, Li turned back.

— Oh, and… congratulations — he said, more serious. — Not for the wedding. For finding someone with whom silence works.

Wen took a second to answer.

— Thank you.

The preparations began as real things begin: with small gestures.

On Saturday, Yuyan and Xiaoqing crossed the street to the teahouse on the corner. It was a place of light wood and big windows, with plants in pots and ceramic on the shelves. The owner, a patient-smiled lady, welcomed them with a tray and three tea samples.

— Chrysanthemum for her, jasmine for him — Xiaoqing said, pointing without hesitation.

— How do you know?

— I've always known — she replied, winking.

They sipped slowly, as if choosing a song. Yuyan closed her eyes at the first sip and thought a wedding could fit inside the right aroma.

— Do you happen to know a garden with plum trees nearby? — she asked the owner, more hopeful than formal.

— I know two — came the simple reply. — One more open, good for the photos the sun likes; another quieter, where you can hear the wind better.

Yuyan jotted it down, her heart choosing before the paper. She pictured few chairs, light tablecloths, flowers almost invisible, as if they didn't want to compete with the trees.

Meilan and Yuyan spread threads across the dinner table. The white handkerchief sat in the center, and the two wooden hoops made it look like embroidery was a kind of old map.

— Backstitch, stem stitch — Meilan said, recalling as she worked. — If you make a mistake, you unpick. The fabric can take it.

— I like that — said Yuyan. — Being able to go back without carrying blame.

They stitched the plum branch with patience and laughter. Sometimes Yuyan missed the direction of a twig; sometimes Meilan drew an improbable curve. The design came alive with the kind of imperfection that belongs to the hands that made it.

When they reached the four words, they wrote them very small in the corner, like a secret for those who know how to come close: I hear you.

— It doesn't need to shout — Meilan said, pleased with her own metaphor. — Whoever needs to hear it, will.

In the lab, Li opened a notebook and sketched a schedule that fit on a single page. Tasks in short lines, time slots with generous margins for error, room for the unexpected, and a big legend: "less is more."

— The ceremony in the garden and the reception here at the teahouse — he said, drawing arrows. — The piano goes in the back room; you play after the cups. No microphone, the room has good acoustics. The owner said she'll close the place for two hours if we promise to take care of the plants.

— We promise — Wen replied, as if signing a pact with spring.

— And the guest list?

— Short — he said. — The hospital family that became family. The kids from the orphanage, if they can. An old professor who taught me to listen.

— And the music?

Wen nodded, like someone who had chosen long ago, without a name: a brief melody that fits between two breaths.

There were dress fittings at a quiet-street atelier. Yuyan tried on a light, unadorned design, with a sleeve detail that suggested petals. When she looked in the mirror, she didn't see someone else: she saw herself on a sunny day that respects the skin. Xiaoqing clapped softly and circled her.

— It's you — she decreed. — The lace is a whisperer. And the hem, look, says "careful" when it brushes the floor.

— I want to be able to walk — Yuyan said, spreading her arms to feel the fall of the fabric. — I don't want choreographed steps.

— Then it's this one — her friend answered, as if signing a sentence from a judge who only rules with love.

Late one afternoon, Wen sat at the piano in the teahouse's back room. The owner had lent him the key for half an hour. He set his hands on the keys and played like someone speaking to a person who knows the way home. He wasn't trying to impress: he was searching for the note that doesn't have to be big to be right.

The sound ran along the wood and lay down among the plants. For a moment, it felt possible that the melody would stay there, kept in the pots, waiting for the exact day to wake again.

Li slipped in without a sound, leaned on the doorframe, and listened from afar. When Wen finished, his friend lifted his chin, satisfied.

— It's going to rain eyes — he said, teasing. — That's fine. I'll bring the handkerchief.

— Rain is good for the plum trees — Wen answered, accepting.

The nights that followed were full of short, sincere messages.

— The owner of the quiet garden says the buds open in two weeks — Yuyan wrote. — I think it's our place.

— Silence you can hear better — Wen replied. — It's where I'd like to promise.

— My mother embroidered "I hear you" in a script that's hers and now also mine.

— I'll learn to read that script slowly, so I don't skip lines.

And there were small shared lists, made with four hands: whom to invite, whom to thank, which flowers to ask for (plum blossom with white chrysanthemum), who could photograph without intruding. Everything got little ticks, arrows, and tiny hearts Xiaoqing drew in the margins when no one was looking.

On Sunday, Yuyan and Meilan went to see the garden. A low gate, a path of pale gravel, trees getting ready for a promise. The wind moved so little it seemed to be choosing.

— It's here — Meilan said, before her daughter could ask. — I recognize a place when it feels like it's been waiting.

— Me too — Yuyan answered, hearing a small bird say something she couldn't translate but understood.

They walked slowly, imagining wooden chairs, a table for two cups, no arch, no ribbons. A simplicity so precise it became abundance.

— Do you remember the day you brought me that first bouquet of chrysanthemums? — Meilan asked, smiling. — I said the house grew brighter. Today you brought something else. The house grew more… spacious.

Yuyan took her mother's hand. They didn't say much. Sometimes the best language is the shared step.

On the way back, Yuyan stopped on the porch with a cup between her hands. She looked up at the sky where two or three lights had begun to appear that might be stars. She thought of the hospital, the piano, the teahouse, the edge of the handkerchief, the garden waiting. Her heart, far from racing, kept a comfortable tempo, like someone who has learned to listen.

Her phone buzzed.

— "Preparations begin. If I get the tone wrong, will you correct me?" — Wen wrote.

She smiled without noticing and answered:

— "I hear you."

She put the phone away, leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb, and lingered a while longer, discovering that some joys don't have to be big to be whole. Inside, Meilan tried on the brooch with her simple Sunday dress. Outside, a plum tree rehearsed its first bud.

In the air was exactly what they had promised: nothing that shouted. Only a path clear enough for the feet to learn. And a low certainty, almost a murmur: the "yes" hadn't ended that night; it was beginning now, page by page, gesture by gesture—like embroidery.

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