The kerosene lamp's flame flickered a few times in the wind before finally stabilizing.
Old Dousang placed the man on the wooden bed, then turned to the corner wall where his medicine cabinet was. That cabinet was built by him in his youth, made of pine planks, unpainted, and over the decades, it had become smooth and shiny from constant handling. Inside, it was divided into dozens of small drawers, each labeled with a yellowed paper note, bearing Latin names of medicines—learned from an Italian monk when he was young, the town's only doctor.
Colette stood by the bed, dripping wet, watching the unconscious man.
The kerosene lamp's light illuminated his face, making it appear even paler than when she saw him by the riverbank—pale like the beeswax her grandfather bought last winter. His lips were devoid of any color, tightly closed, with only the slightest movement of his nostrils.
The wound on his left shoulder was still bleeding, soaking a small patch of the bed linen.
"Grandfather, he..."
"Don't speak. Go light the stove," Old Dousang said without turning around, busy rummaging through his medicine cabinet. "Boil some water again, the hotter the better."
Colette responded with a nod, limping toward the stove. Her ankle was swollen even more, each step stabbing painfully, but she clenched her teeth, stuffing firewood into the stove, striking a match, watching the flame lick the pine wood little by little.
A scissors sound came from behind. She turned to see her grandfather using the herbal scissors to cut open the man's shoulder cloth.
The fabric was thick, and he couldn't cut through it. Old Dousang put down the scissors and switched to a blade, carefully slicing open the cloth little by little. When the wound was exposed, his hand paused.
Colette leaned in to look, gasping sharply.
It was a dark, gaping wound, located below the shoulder blade. The surrounding flesh was rolled and black-purple. It wasn't a knife wound—no, it was—
"A gunshot," Old Dousang whispered. "Someone shot him."
Colette's heart clenched sharply.
A gunshot. These days, when someone is shot, they are either a soldier, a bandit, or someone who has offended the wrong person. She suddenly regretted bringing this person back. What if those people came after him? What if it implicated her grandfather?
"Are you scared?" Old Dousang looked at her.
Colette bit her lip, silent.
The old man sighed, reaching out to gently touch her damp hair. "Maybe you should be. But this person is lying on the riverbank. If we don't save him, he will die. Our Dousang family cannot stand by and do nothing when someone is dying."
He turned around, took out several small porcelain bottles from the medicine cabinet, and then a clay basin. He began preparing herbal medicine—lavender essential oil, rosemary, thyme, calendula... he murmured to himself as he worked, as if reciting an ancient spell.
Colette watched silently. Her grandfather's hands were steady; the liquids in the bottles seemed alive in his grasp, poured just right, the ointment mixed neither too thick nor too thin.
"Go get a clean cloth," Old Dousang said. "The whitest one."
Colette rummaged through the cabinet and found a piece of white cloth—she had woven it last summer, originally intending to make a shirt for herself. She handed it to her grandfather, watching as he applied ointment onto the cloth and then carefully pressed it onto the man's shoulder wound.
The man trembled all over and let out a very faint groan.
"Pain is a good sign," Old Dousang said. "It means he's still alive."
He secured the cloth with a strip of cloth, then reached out to feel the man's forehead.
"It's burning," he said with a frown. "It might get worse tonight. Colette, watch him. I'll go prepare the medicine."
Colette nodded and sat on the stool beside the bed.
The flickering flame of the kerosene lamp cast a dim, shifting glow across the wooden cottage. Outside, the rain was still falling heavily, pounding on the roof and streaming down the thatched roof. Occasionally, a flash of lightning illuminated the interior, followed by the thunder roaring so loudly that the window paper fluttered.
The person on the bed remained motionless.
Colette looked at him. His face, his eyebrows, his lips—tight and unmoving. He was very handsome, the kind of handsome only found in city folk—thick eyebrows, a high nose, long and dense eyelashes. When his eyes were closed, he looked like a sculpture.
Who was he? Why was he shot? Why did he fall into the river?
These questions spun in her mind, giving her a headache.
She stood up and limped to the stove. Her grandfather was boiling herbs; the clay pot bubbled, emitting a bitter aroma.
"Grandfather, will he die?"
Old Dousang didn't turn around, just stirring the medicine with a wooden stick. "That depends on his fate. The wounds are too severe, and he's been in the water for so long, blood almost drained from his body. If the fever can be brought down tonight, there might still be hope."
"What if it doesn't go down?"
The old man was silent.
Colette didn't ask further. She returned to the bed and sat down again.
Night deepened. The rain gradually lessened, turning into a gentle autumn drizzle that tapped softly on the window. Old Dousang brought over the prepared medicine, helping Colette hold the man's head as she fed him spoonfuls. The man clenched his jaw tightly; half the medicine went in, half dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.
"Swallow it," Colette whispered. "Swallow, and you'll live."
Perhaps hearing her words, his throat moved, and he swallowed a small gulp.
After feeding him, Old Dousang went to sleep next door. Before leaving, he looked at Colette, wanting to say something but ultimately sighed, "Call me if anything happens tonight."
Colette nodded.
She sat by the bed, watching over the man.
The kerosene lamp's oil was running low, the flame flickering weaker. Colette got up to add oil, and when she returned, she saw that his body was trembling.
Very subtly, but she saw it.
She reached out to touch his forehead—hotter than before.
He was burning.
Colette panicked. She ran next door to call her grandfather. Old Dousang, dressed quickly, came over and checked his forehead and neck, his face darkening.
"It's too severe," he said. "We need mountain fireweed. I used it from the cabinet, but it's all gone. I forgot to buy more at the market."
Mountain fireweed. Colette knew that plant—growing on the mountain behind the village, about a two-hour climb to reach. Now it was late at night, raining, the mountain trail slippery and dangerous—
"I'll go," she said.
Old Dousang looked at her. "Your foot."
"It's fine," Colette already bent down to put on her straw shoes. "I can go."
She didn't wait for his answer, pushed open the door, and rushed into the rain.
The rain had eased somewhat but was still heavy, stinging her face. Limping, she ran toward the back mountain. Her ankle hurt so much that every step made her want to scream, but she clenched her teeth and kept silent.
The trail was slippery, rain washing the mud into a slurry. Each step was hard to take, and she fell three times, her clothes covered in mud, her knees scraped, and her palms cut, but she kept climbing.
The fireweed grew in the cracks of the rocks at the mountaintop. She groped in the dark for a long time, finally, at the verge of despair, finding a patch. She pulled up the roots and leaves, stuffed them into her pocket, and turned to run back down.
Descending was even harder. She nearly tumbled down, rolling and crawling, until she reached the wooden hut, looking hardly human anymore.
Old Dousang took the fireweed, said nothing, only gripping her hand tightly.
That grip was warm.
Colette stood by the stove, watching her grandfather wash, chop, and toss the fireweed into the medicine pot. Her clothes were still dripping, her feet still aching, her hands bleeding, but she cared little about anything else.
All she wanted was to know if the person could live.
The medicine was ready. This time, Old Dousang personally fed him. He helped Colette lift the man up and lean him against himself, spooning the medicine into his mouth. The man still clenched his jaw, but this time, he swallowed more than before.
After feeding him, Old Dousang said, "Go to sleep. I'll stay up."
Colette shook her head. "I'm not tired."
She didn't sleep. She sat by the bed, watching over the man, staying awake until dawn. She dozed off a few times, each time waking up with her first instinct to reach out and feel his forehead.
Hot, still hot.
But it seemed less intense than in the middle of the night.
When dawn broke, the rain had stopped. Colette got up, wanting to open the door for some fresh air. Just as she stood, she heard a very faint, gentle groan behind her.
She spun around sharply.
The person's eyelids fluttered, then slowly, slowly, a slit opened.
Colette rushed to the bed, leaning in to look closer.
It was a pair of very beautiful eyes, grayish-blue, like the sky after the rain. But those eyes had no focus, staring blankly upward, gazing at the ceiling, at the faint light coming through the window.
"You're awake?" Colette asked softly.
The person's gaze slowly shifted toward her, and his lips moved.
She pressed her ear closer.
She heard him ask—
"Who am I?"