A glaring crimson rapidly spread, like a blood flower blooming on pure white.
"Ah!" Ilena, the Red-haired girl who had been nervously watching her, couldn't help but exclaim in alarm, instinctively stepping out from behind the Old Woman and anxiously reminding her: "Your wound... your wound has opened! You can't move around!"
"Child, listen to Ilena." The Old Woman also immediately urged in a firm tone, leaving no room for doubt, "In your current state, no matter how urgent the matter, where can you go? Rest here and heal your wounds first."
The excruciating pain and instant weakness forced Serie to give up.
She bit her lip, cold sweat pouring down her as she slumped back onto the creaking, makeshift bed.
"...Alright." She gasped, with deep apology and a sense of powerlessness, "But... you saved me, cared for me, used so much medicine... I must do something to repay you. Is there anything I can help with?"
She looked at Ilena, then at the Old Woman, her eyes pleading.
Ilena subconsciously turned her head to look at her grandmother, seeking guidance.
The Old Woman simply shook her head slowly and firmly, her wrinkled face showing the peacefulness of one who understood the ways of the world:
"Silly child, if you can live well, and get your body strong, and not let our efforts and medicine go to waste, that will be the greatest repayment to us."
As she spoke, she wearily rubbed her lower back and let out a long yawn: "Ah, I'm old, I can't stay up anymore... Ilena, go bring her the soup that's warming on the stove, and find the ointment to re-bandage her."
Having given instructions, the Old Woman turned and walked with slightly faltering steps towards the adjacent room.
With a creak, the door closed.
In the small wooden house, only Serie and Ilena remained.
The air seemed to freeze.
Lingering smells of medicine, blood, and smoke mingled together.
Ilena kept her head down, her fingers anxiously twisting the hem of her clothes, her eyes darting away; the terrifying scene she had just witnessed clearly left her with lingering fear.
Serie leaned against the headboard, looking at the glaring purple finger marks on Ilena's neck, opened her mouth, and finally could only weakly utter a single sentence:
"I'm sorry..."
When her words fell, Ilena did not respond.
Only the occasional soft crackle of firewood in the stove was exceptionally clear in the heavy and awkward silence.
Serie looked at the heavy snow outside the window, thinking perhaps the Control Bureau wouldn't find her for a while. She turned her head, just about to try and break the silence, and as soon as her gaze met Ilena's, the other girl, like a startled rabbit, "whooshed" and turned her head, darting into the adjacent kitchen.
After a while, she cautiously emerged, carrying a steaming bowl of borscht with a rich beetroot aroma, and gently placed it on the small wooden table by the bed.
To Serie's surprise, Ilena timidly extended her arm towards her, gesturing to help her up.
Serie endured the pain, slowly allowing herself to be helped to the table and sit down.
Before she could even settle, Ilena's trembling fingers already reached for the knot of the bandage around her lower abdomen.
"Wait... wait!" Serie's heart jumped, but she was a step too late to stop her.
The bandage had already been gently undone.
Her previous clothes had long been burned to ashes in the battle; now, all over her body, apart from these bandages, there was not a single thread covering her!
As the bandage came undone, the cool air instantly kissed her exposed skin.
Serie felt a rush of blood "boom" to her cheeks, her ears burning surprisingly hot, and she froze on the stool, wishing she could find a crack in the ground to crawl into.
Ilena looked at most fifteen or sixteen years old, and her own disheveled appearance was completely exposed in front of such a half-grown child...
This was simply harder to endure than torture!
If the other person were an experienced doctor or nurse, she might have been able to numb herself with their professional attitude.
But Ilena before her... she seemed even more mortified than Serie!
Her entire small face was so red it looked like it would drip blood, and the hands holding the damp cotton cloth, ready to wipe the wound, trembled like withered leaves in the autumn wind. Her gaze was even more erratic, fixed on the ground or the wall, simply not daring to glance at those "key areas."
The result was predictable.
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