The days in the single hospital room flowed slowly and stagnantly, like deep water that looked calm on the surface but hid reefs beneath.
Yan Hanxie spent most of the time still asleep. The process of reducing medication came with intermittent moments of consciousness, but even those moments of wakefulness were covered by a thin mist—scattered, slow, her perception of time and surroundings vague and unclear.
Zong Yi was allowed to visit once per day, with the time strictly limited to fifteen minutes.
She always arrived punctually, carrying a caution that was almost reverent.
Most of the time Yan Hanxie was sleeping.
Zong Yi would move a chair and sit a few steps away from the bed, watching quietly.
Her gaze lingered for a long time on that pale, thin face, watching the occasional slight furrow in her brows from discomfort, watching her eyelashes tremble lightly in dreams, watching her dry, peeling lips move unconsciously and release some indistinct words.
Those words were sometimes a vague "pain," sometimes a blurred "cold," and sometimes… something softer and more drifting, similar to "don't go," or the ending tone about "kissing" that made her heart suddenly tremble.
Whenever that happened, Zong Yi would immediately look away, her hands and feet turning cold, as if she were a guilty thief, afraid that the sleeping person might somehow see through the stormy, hidden emotions surging inside her heart.
She began bringing some things with her.
Not flowers—the scent might stimu-late the patient; and not books—Yan Hanxie's eyes still could not focus for long periods to read.
She brought a small bottle of fragrance-free moisturizing spray. After obtaining the nurse's permission, she sprayed it extremely gently around Yan Hanxie's dry lips and cheeks.
She brought a pair of soft cashmere socks, replacing the hospital's standard cotton ones, carefully pulling them over Yan Hanxie's always cold feet.
She also brought a small portable speaker that played extremely soothing instrumental music (approved by the doctor). She placed it on the bedside table and turned the volume to the lowest level, like a faint breeze lingering in the background.
These tiny, trivial acts of care she performed awkwardly and clumsily, yet with a focus that was almost instinctive, something even she herself had not noticed.
As if through these insignificant touches and arrangements she could slightly fill that vast emptiness between them, an emptiness filled with the unknown and fear, and could slightly convey a trace of… comfort she could not speak aloud, and did not even dare examine deeply.
Occasionally, Yan Hanxie would briefly wake during her visits.
Usually it was only a few minutes of a half-dreaming, half-awake state. Her gaze was empty, unfocused, slowly moving before finally landing on Zong Yi sitting beside the bed.
She would stare for a long time, as if recognizing a distant yet familiar shadow. There was no emotion in her eyes, only bottomless exhaustion and confusion.
Zong Yi would hold her breath, not daring to move at all, allowing that unfocused gaze to envelop her.
Sometimes Yan Hanxie would move her lips slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end they would only open and close a few times uselessly, producing a faint breath of sound before she tiredly closed her eyes again and sank into deeper sleep.
Only once, when Zong Yi was trying to moisten Yan Hanxie's lips with a cotton swab dipped in warm water, Yan Hanxie suddenly opened her eyes, clearer than at any previous moment, and looked straight at her.
Zong Yi's hand froze in midair.
Yan Hanxie's gaze slowly moved from her face to the hand holding the cotton swab, then to her left wrist—the string of deep-brown sandalwood prayer beads slid out slightly from her sleeve because of the movement of lifting her hand.
Her gaze lingered on that string of beads for several seconds.
Then she blinked extremely slowly, almost imperceptibly.
There were no words and no change in expression.
But in that single blink, Zong Yi's heart felt as if something had grasped it—not too hard, yet with perfect precision.
She was certain that Yan Hanxie had recognized it.
Recognized the beads, and recognized… her.
Although that moment of clarity lasted only an instant and was soon covered again by the fog of fatigue as Yan Hanxie closed her eyes once more.
Still, that brief, silent confirmation was like a stone thrown into deep water, sending ripples through Zong Yi's heart that would not settle for a long time.
Days passed one after another.
Yan Hanxie's waking periods gradually grew longer. Although she was still weak, speaking with difficulty and often staring blankly, at least she could begin responding to simple instructions from the nurses and could barely drink a few mouthfuls of liquid food.
Zong Yi's visits remained mostly silent.
She did not know what to say.
Asking about her condition seemed unnecessary, discussing work was inappropriate, and those things that truly weighed heavily in her heart were even more forbidden.
She could only continue those clumsy acts of care—handing over a cup of warm water, adjusting the height of the pillow, or simply sitting quietly like a silent watcher.
Until one afternoon when the weather was especially clear.
Sunlight passed through the clean glass window and poured warmly into the hospital room, casting bright patches of light on the floor.
Yan Hanxie seemed to be in better spirits than the previous days, half reclining against the raised hospital bed while staring out the window in a daze.
Zong Yi sat in her usual place, unconsciously rolling the prayer beads on her wrist between her fingers.
The air was quiet, filled only with the steady ticking of instruments and the faint chirping of birds outside.
Suddenly, Yan Hanxie slowly turned her head. Her gaze fell on Zong Yi and remained there for a long time.
Zong Yi noticed and lifted her eyes, meeting her gaze.
Yan Hanxie's lips moved. Her voice was very low, hoarse, but the words were fairly clear:
"…Beads."
Zong Yi's heart skipped a beat.
She subconsciously raised her left hand so the prayer beads on her wrist were completely visible.
"Mm." She responded softly, her voice somewhat dry.
Yan Hanxie's gaze lingered on the beads for a long time. Her expression was complicated, as if through them she was looking at something far away, or perhaps falling into an unpleasant memory.
After a long while she spoke again, extremely softly, almost inaudibly:
"They're dirty."
Zong Yi was startled and looked down at her wrist. The beads had been rubbed smooth and glossy by her fingers; they were not dirty.
"I cleaned them," she answered instinctively.
Yan Hanxie seemed not to hear clearly, or perhaps she did not care about the answer.
Her eyes remained somewhat empty as she continued speaking in a low hoarse voice, slowly and intermittently:
"That day… when I threw them… there was a lot of dust… I thought… I didn't want them anymore…"
Her voice grew weaker and weaker, as if she had exhausted all her strength. She closed her eyes again, her brows habitually knitting together, as if even the memory itself carried irritating dust.
Zong Yi's fingers tightened slightly around the beads. She looked at Yan Hanxie's exhausted profile. The words "I thought I didn't want them anymore" felt like a tiny thorn piercing her heart.
So she knew.
She knew they had been thrown into the dusty storage room. And she knew… they had been picked up by her and worn again.
Yet when she mentioned it now, there was no questioning or confusion in her tone. Only a deep, almost resigned exhaustion and a faint trace of… perhaps even she herself had not noticed, an extremely subtle confusion.
As if asking: Why pick them back up?
Why still wear them?
Zong Yi opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Why?
She had asked herself that question countless times.
There was no answer.
Or perhaps the answer lay hidden in that forbidden territory within her heart that she dared not enter.
Silence spread again.
The sunlight moved quietly.
After a long time—so long that Zong Yi thought Yan Hanxie had fallen asleep again—Yan Hanxie spoke once more, extremely softly, her eyes still closed, her voice drifting like a murmur from a dream:
"…Wearing them… is fine too."
Just four short words, yet they seemed to exhaust all her strength.
After saying them she made no further sound. Her breathing gradually became long and even, as if she had sunk into light sleep again.
But Zong Yi remained sitting there stiffly for a long time because of that sentence.
"Wearing them is fine too."
What did it mean?
Permission?
Resignation?
Or… some kind of passive indulgence she did not dare think too deeply about?
She lowered her head and looked at the string of beads on her wrist that had been discarded, retrieved, cleaned, and worn again.
They rested quietly against her pulse, like a silent contract linking two women who were both struggling under illness and pressure, both secretive about certain emotions, both trying in confusion to grasp onto something.
The visiting time was over.
The nurse knocked gently on the door.
Zong Yi stood up and gave one last look at Yan Hanxie, who seemed to have already fallen asleep.
Sunlight covered her pale face with a faint golden glow, weakening the sickly fragility and giving her a strange, motionless peace.
She turned around and quietly closed the door.
When she stepped out of the hospital building, the afternoon sunlight was somewhat dazzling.
She raised her hand to block her forehead, and the prayer beads on her wrist shone with a warm, calm luster in the sunlight.
"Wearing them is fine too."
That sentence, along with Yan Hanxie's empty gaze and exhausted profile, carved itself into her mind.
The barren place deep in her heart seemed to grow something quietly because of those words.
Not an answer, not clarity, but something heavier, something that felt almost… permitted.
A bond.
She knew that once certain things were picked up, they could never be put down again.
Just like those beads.
Just like… that person.
—
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