Her father stayed in the CCU for a week before his condition barely stabilized and he was transferred to a regular ward.
During that week, Zong Yi almost did not close her eyes.
During the day she handled urgent company matters that required her decisions—through phone calls and video meetings, like commanding a battle that had not yet ended from behind glass.
At night she stayed in the hospital, replacing her exhausted mother, watching the fluctuating curves on the monitoring equipment and listening to her father's breathing, sometimes steady and sometimes disordered.
The string of Buddhist beads remained on her wrist the entire time.
Sometimes under the dim lighting of the hospital room, it would reflect a faint glimmer, like distant fishing lights on the sea in the deep night.
Her mother asked about it once. She only said that a friend had given it to her, to calm the mind.
Her mother did not ask further. When Zong Yi was so exhausted that she fell asleep leaning beside the bed, her mother would gently brush her hair with rough, warm hands.
The day her father was transferred out of the CCU, the weather was unusually clear.
The thin winter sunlight shone through the hospital window, casting crooked, bright patches of light on the floor.
Her father looked a little better. He could drink half a bowl of plain porridge, although speaking was still difficult.
Her mother's face finally regained a bit of color as she busily sorted the small number of belongings brought out from the CCU.
Zong Yi stood by the window, looking at several people in hospital gowns slowly walking in the small garden downstairs.
The sunlight was dazzling. She narrowed her eyes slightly.
The phone in her pocket vibrated. Not her work phone—her private one.
She walked out into the corridor outside the ward and answered.
"Hello."
"Has the situation stabilized?" It was Yan Hanxie's voice. It was still somewhat hoarse, but compared with the broken weakness in her voice during the last call, it seemed calmer.
Her tone was a plain inquiry, without much emotion.
"Yes. He's been transferred to a regular ward." Zong Yi paused. "Thank you."
This "thank you" was more solemn than any previous one, and also… more complicated.
Not only for those efficient arrangements that had been almost miraculous, but also for the silent dusk photograph sent that night, and for this brief call confirming her father's safety.
There was a moment of silence on the other end.
"It was necessary," Yan Hanxie said. There was no ripple in her voice. "Your father is elderly. He needs careful recovery. If you need better rehabilitation resources later, you can tell me."
"For now it's not necessary. The doctors here have arranged things well." Zong Yi leaned against the cold wall, her gaze unconsciously falling on the Buddhist beads on her wrist. "How… are things on your side?"
After asking it, even she herself was startled. That seemed to exceed the boundaries of "work" or "necessary concern" between them.
Yan Hanxie also seemed to pause.
After a short silence, she answered, "The same as before. Taking medicine. Resting." Her tone was calm, as if she were speaking about someone else's life.
"Occasionally walking by the sea."
The sea.
Zong Yi thought of that photograph of the dusk.
Magnificent. Desolate.
"That's good," she said stiffly.
Another silence.
But this silence was no longer filled with confrontation or suffocating emptiness like before. Instead, it felt more like a kind of… awkward stalemate, unsure how to continue.
"Zong Yi." Yan Hanxie suddenly called her name, her voice lowering slightly.
"Mm?"
"…Take care." She only said those two words. Then, as if afraid that saying one more word would reveal something, she hurriedly added, "I have something to do. I'll hang up now."
"Alright."
The call ended.
The busy tone sounded.
Zong Yi stood in the corridor for a while, holding the phone.
Sunlight slanted in from the window at the end of the corridor, stretching her shadow long.
Take care.
She slowly returned to the hospital room.
Her father had already fallen asleep, and her mother was quietly peeling an apple.
Seeing her come in, her mother handed her a small slice. "Eat something. Your complexion looks bad."
Zong Yi took it and put it into her mouth.
The apple was sweet, with a slight sourness.
She walked to her father's bedside and looked at the tightly furrowed brows that remained even in his sleep.
Life was so fragile—an unexpected illness could crush a person.
Yet life was also so tenacious. With countless precise or crude instruments, medicine, and human effort, it could gradually reclaim its territory from death.
Like "Spark." Like Yan Hanxie. Like herself.
The Buddhist beads on her wrist looked warmer in the sunlight.
The day her father was discharged to rest at home, Zong Yi also booked a flight back.
At the company, the decisions piled up during Vice President Sun's temporary management, along with the bottlenecks encountered in the advancement of "Spark," could no longer be handled remotely.
Her mother held her hand and repeatedly reminded her to take care of her health and not push herself too hard.
Her father leaned on the sofa. Although he still could not speak much, the look in his eyes toward her held worry—but also pride.
The plane rushed into the sky.
Below were endless clouds and cities that had shrunk into toy-like models.
Zong Yi leaned against the seat and closed her eyes.
The exhaustion of the past days surged up like a tide, almost swallowing her instantly.
But she could not sleep.
Fragments of images spun through her mind: the numbers on her father's monitor, her mother's swollen red eyes, the glaring deficits on company reports, the cold smiles of competitors, Yan Hanxie's hoarse "Take care," and the silent string of beads on her wrist that seemed to grow heavier and heavier.
After returning to the company, the accumulated work collapsed down like a mountain.
When Vice President Sun saw her, his face carried his usual smooth smile, yet there was probing in his words. "Director Zong handled things at home? You've worked hard. As for 'Spark,' there are some situations…"
Zong Yi had no time to circle around with him.
She directly convened a core project team meeting, efficiently sorting out progress, resolving bottlenecks, and redistributing tasks.
Her return was like injecting a stimulant into the exhausted team, and also like striking a warning bell for the opponents hiding in the dark.
Those resistances and rumors that had stirred while she was away temporarily fell silent under her cold and decisive methods.
She became busier and worked even harder than before.
As if she wanted to reclaim double the time she had been absent.
She no longer just sat in the office giving orders. She frequently flew to pilot cities, going deep into the front line to solve the most practical problems.
She had grown extremely thin. The dark circles beneath her eyes had become a permanent mark.
But her eyes were brighter than ever, like a blade tempered in fire.
Only in the deep night, when she was utterly exhausted, returning alone to her apartment, removing her coat, and the Buddhist beads on her wrist were fully revealed, would she have a moment of daze.
It was still there.
Like a silent witness.
Witnessing her father's survival after disaster, witnessing the life-and-death battle of her company, and also witnessing… another woman's unknown "rest and recovery" in the distant south.
Occasionally she would think of that photograph of the dusk.
And also Yan Hanxie's brief words: "Take care."
Days passed quickly under intense pressure.
Her father had regular checkups, and his condition steadily improved.
"Spark" continued advancing through difficulties. Although it was hard, its foundation seemed to be tempered stronger with each crisis.
Yan Hanxie did not contact her again.
That southern number, and that instant messaging account, once again sank into the silent deep sea.
Zong Yi also did not actively touch it.
Between them, it seemed they had returned to that previous relationship maintained only by the cold project and a single authorization letter—fragile and distant.
Until an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
Zong Yi was in her office discussing an important cooperation negotiation strategy with her team when the assistant's internal call came in, her voice sounding slightly strange.
"Director Zong, the front desk says… there's an urgent same-city delivery for you. The sender didn't leave a name, but requested that you personally sign for it."
Zong Yi frowned. "Bring it up."
A few minutes later, a thin kraft paper document envelope without any markings was placed on her desk.
The opening was sealed only with simple tape.
The team members tactfully paused the discussion.
Zong Yi picked up the envelope and weighed it. Very light.
She tore open the seal.
Inside there was only a folded piece of white cardstock of very good quality.
She unfolded it.
There was no salutation. No signature.
There was only a single line of text in a cold, rigid typeface:
[President Yan's condition has relapsed. She has been transferred to the intensive care unit. The situation is not optimistic. Return immediately.]
Below the paper was the name and address of a hospital.
It was in this city—a private hospital well known for neurology and intensive care.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment.
The low hum of the office air conditioner, the lowered voices of the team members, the noise of the city outside the window… all sounds instantly retreated, turning into a sharp, dizzying buzzing.
Zong Yi held the paper, her fingertips cold, as if her blood had frozen.
She stared at that line of text.
Every stroke looked like a heated iron wire burning into her eyes.
Condition relapsed.
Intensive care unit.
Not optimistic.
Return immediately.
Yan Hanxie… had come back?
In this city?
And already so critically ill that she had been admitted to intensive care?
Wasn't she supposed to be "resting quietly" at a temple or sanatorium in the south?
When did she return?
Why… had no one told her?
"Director Zong?" The assistant's cautious voice barely pulled her mind back from its frozen state.
Zong Yi suddenly raised her head.
Her face was frighteningly pale, but her gaze was sharp enough to pierce through something.
She quickly folded the paper and clenched it in her palm, the edge of the paper digging painfully into her skin.
"Meeting suspended." Her voice was astonishingly steady, even colder than usual. "Manager Li will handle the follow-up strategy simulation. I want to see the plan before the end of the day."
She grabbed the coat hanging over the back of her chair and her car keys.
Without even explaining a word to the team members, she strode out of the office.
Her steps were quick and steady, yet carried an almost panicked urgency.
Corridor. Elevator. Parking garage.
After sitting in the car, she realized that her hands were shaking badly, almost unable to insert the key into the ignition.
Deep breath.
Another deep breath.
The cold air filled her lungs, barely suppressing the violent turmoil in her chest.
The car rushed out of the underground garage and merged into the afternoon traffic.
She opened the navigation system and entered the hospital address from the paper.
The distance was not far.
If traffic was clear—twenty minutes.
Those twenty minutes felt like an entire century.
Red lights. Crowded lanes. Slowly moving vehicles.
Every second was torture.
She gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring straight ahead, but her mind was in complete chaos.
That pale and exhausted face. Those unfocused yet stubborn eyes. The Buddhist beads were abandoned in the utility room and later returned to her wrist. That hoarse "Take care." That silent dusk photograph…
Every fragment connected to Yan Hanxie surged up at this moment, sharply slicing through her nerves.
How could it be… so fast?
So serious?
Didn't she say "the same as before"?
Didn't she say "taking medicine, resting"?
Intensive care… not optimistic…
"—Screech!"
A harsh braking sound.
She almost rear-ended the car in front.
Cold sweat instantly soaked her back.
She forced herself to calm down.
She could not panic.
At least—not yet.
The car finally turned into the road leading to the private hospital.
The surroundings were quiet, with trees lining both sides. Rather than a hospital, it looked more like a high-end sanatorium.
But the smell of disinfectant in the air was just as cold as any hospital.
After parking, she walked quickly toward the main building.
Following the information on the note, she went directly to the top floor of the inpatient department.
This floor was particularly quiet.
The corridor was spacious, covered with thick carpet, and footsteps could barely be heard.
The intensive care unit area had strict access control and visitor management.
She walked to the nurse's station and gave Yan Hanxie's name.
The nurse looked up at her.
There was a trace of scrutiny in her eyes… and sympathy?
"You are…?"
"I'm her subordinate at the company. Zong Yi." Zong Yi's voice tightened slightly. "I received notice that President Yan's condition relapsed…"
The nurse nodded and checked on the computer.
"Ms. Yan Hanxie is indeed in ICU bed three. Her current condition… is not very stable. The attending physician is inside right now. Please wait. I'll contact the doctor."
Zong Yi's heart sank.
She stood outside the nurse's station, looking at the heavy automatic door leading to the ICU area.
The indicator light above the door glowed with a cold red light.
Slowly she raised her left hand.
The Buddhist beads on her wrist, in this place filled with the presence of life and death, felt so heavy it seemed as if they might break her wrist.
She clenched her fist tightly, gripping the beads in her palm.
The cold wooden beads pressed painfully into her skin.
—
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