Huan’er didn’t go back with them – her task was to handle their leave requests and take their bags. Throughout the entire evening self-study session, she couldn’t focus. However she wasn’t certain about the extent of Jing Qichi’s injury, or whether this accident would affect the upcoming league selection trials. During break, she called Song Cong – her phone was off; called her mother – but after one ring remembered that Dr. Qian had specifically mentioned this morning before leaving that there was a major operation tonight and she’d be back late, so she quickly hung up. Teacher Xu personally supervised the second self-study period, so Huan’er didn’t dare cause trouble. In an hour of dawdling, she only managed to solve one math problem.

Just before class ended, she received a text from an unknown number: “Huan’er, my phone died. Don’t ride your bike alone, take the bus back. Will explain when you get here.”

It was from Song Cong.

She started typing a reply but then thought Song Cong probably borrowed someone’s phone at the hospital to send this message. A back-and-forth would just inconvenience others, so she decided against it.

When school finally let out, Huan’er was the first to rush out of the classroom, hailing a taxi at the school gate straight to the hospital. She first searched the emergency department but found no one. After asking a nurse she knew, she learned they had been transferred to the inpatient ward. She began to worry – if it wasn’t serious, they would’ve just kept him under emergency observation for one night. Moreover, for people of their status, unless it required surgery, parents would consider staying in the hospital a waste of public resources. Jing Qichi must be in real trouble.

She found Song Cong in the hallway outside the inpatient ward. These past few hours, her heart had felt like a stone tied down and thrown into the sea, getting heavier and more helpless – if the outcome were optimistic, Song Cong should be by Jing Qichi’s side right now.

“Where is he? How is he?” Huan’er asked anxiously.

Song Cong first shook his head slowly, then pointed to his knee, saying quietly, “Anterior cruciate ligament torn, meniscus damaged.”

Huan’er didn’t understand, but Song Cong’s somber expression and next words made it clear: “In the future… don’t know if he can play soccer anymore.”

Jing Qichi’s dream of becoming a professional player, at the moment when it was closest to reality, came to an abrupt end.

Huan’er tried to rush to the ward but was held back. Song Cong told her, “Uncle and Aunt are in there. Let’s wait.”

She stood beside her friend, tilting her head back slightly against the wall, her gaze falling on the straight, harsh lines of the wall corner. Her mother often said not to underestimate any organ in the body – they all possessed a tremendous supply of power and life force. Every breath, every movement, and their close coordination operating day and night gave the human body its meaning as a vessel. Huan’er had always scorned this view – in doctors’ eyes, weren’t people just a collection of organs? What did they understand about the pleasures and soul beyond the physical shell?

But at this moment, she suddenly felt her mother’s words held profound philosophical meaning – just one small component in the body malfunctioning, and everything one loves, thinks about, and pursues becomes unsolvable. Life branches onto another path, one that must be taken with no other choice.

This was the reality facing Jing Qichi.

Huan’er asked, “What happens next, surgery?”

Song Cong nodded, “My dad says given Qichi’s age and physical condition, surgery is more suitable. Besides, he wouldn’t agree to conservative treatment anyway.”

He still wouldn’t give up.

“Can he play again afterward?”

Song Cong sighed, “Recovery will take at least half a year, depending on how it goes.”

In the hallway, patients on crutches walked slowly past. Occasionally when doctors passed by, Song Cong would stand to greet them – he knew most of his father’s colleagues. The rest of the time, the two of them just sat leaning against the wall, lost in their thoughts.

Comfort was their shared challenge at this moment.

After fifteen minutes, Jing’s parents came out and closed the door tight. “He’s asleep. Surgery tomorrow. You two should head back, don’t wait around.”

Huan’er wanted very much to go in and see him but worried it might affect his mood before tomorrow’s operation, so she kept quiet.

“It’s alright.” Seeing her dejection, Jing’s mom tried to comfort her instead. “We’ve explained the situation and pros and cons clearly. Don’t worry too much, you two. Right now we must believe in him.”

She was just like a medical professional carefully counseling a patient’s family. But Huan’er saw the momentary frown that crossed her face – the unavoidable worry and concern of an ordinary mother.

Even the strongest people have their vulnerabilities.

Mr. Jing put an arm around his wife’s shoulders, giving them an encouraging squeeze.

The four walked out of the hospital in silence. When they had to separate at the staff quarters, Mr. Jing spoke in an entreating tone, “With Qichi getting injured at this time, even if he doesn’t say it, psychologically he won’t be able to accept it for a while. This kid definitely won’t tell us because he’s worried we’ll worry. You two are by his side – help Uncle and Auntie guide him, give him support.”

Huan’er and Song Cong agreed, and then each went home.

Spring had arrived – this cruel spring that shattered hope.

The next morning, Mrs. Chen energetically made breakfast. When Huan’er asked what time she got back, Dr. Qian gave a mocking laugh. “After eleven. I thought you were still studying, but you were sleeping like the dead.”

Huan’er grinned sheepishly and buried her head in her food.

“I only found out about Qichi’s injury when I went into surgery. Heard from Song Cong’s father the situation is fair.”

It was her mother’s habit to grade patients’ conditions on a four-level scale from best to worst: very good, okay, fair, not optimistic. At first glance, these four evaluations might not seem very different, perhaps even falling on roughly the same level between raising hope and lowering expectations. But in reality, even if a vegetative patient miraculously woke up she would only say “very good,” and if someone was critically ill with blood pressure dropping point by point causing constant anxiety, she would only evaluate it as “not optimistic.”

Dr. Qian rarely showed extreme emotions, as if it was her natural disposition.

But hearing this rating, Huan’er became somewhat agitated. “How is it just fair?”

“It’s not serious, ordinary people just recover slowly.” Mrs. Chen looked at her. “Yesterday your Uncle Song said Qichi was already thinking about repeating a year. Let alone whether he can return to his previous condition after recovering from this tear, that youth team also has age limits. You’d better help him give up that idea – it’s a burden both physically and mentally.”

Huan’er gave a soft “mm” in response.

“Surgery is just the first step, recovery is the real challenge.” Mrs. Chen instructed her daughter, “As his friend you need to help Qichi more. Don’t be careless with your words like usual, understand?”

“I know,” Huan’er nodded.

Song Cong waited as usual at the entrance to the staff quarters. Huan’er greeted him and they slowly set off together. On the way they naturally talked about their friend who would be going into surgery today. Huan’er told him about Jing Qichi’s thoughts of repeating a year. “I can understand,” Song Cong responded quietly, “but taking such a risk is too great.”

They knew he wasn’t resigned to it, but weren’t sure whether as friends they should encourage persistence or advise letting go at this point.

Feeling the spring breeze on her face, Huan’er sighed softly, “It’s such nice weather.”

“Yeah,” Song Cong gazed ahead, “The other day my mom was saying we should find a weekend when everyone’s free to go on spring outing together. The peach blossoms are blooming by South Lake. We’ll see how Qichi’s doing first.”

The blooming season lasts at most two months – nature waits for no one.

Huan’er stayed silent.

Song Cong saw what she was thinking and smiled patiently. “It’s fine, if not this year then next year, no rush. Besides, my mom just got excited seeing everyone else going. She just loves taking those tourist photos.”

Now Huan’er laughed. “Did Auntie already prepare the floral scarves?”

“Don’t even mention it, she bought three.” Song Cong grimaced. “Your mom, Aunt Lin – the sister style, no one’s escaping.”

Green plums and bamboo, willow-like silk, butterflies flying in the lengthening days.

Thinking carefully, spring still held many things to look forward to.

During the day, several boys from class came to ask about the situation. Song Cong answered mechanically like an official spokesperson: “Needs surgery, specifics depend on recovery.” Liao Xinyan pulled Huan’er aside to probe for all the details – Was it major surgery? Would he need to stay in the hospital? How long until he recovered? Could she visit? Huan’er related everything she knew, finally telling her to wait. No one knew Jing Qichi’s current state, but based on Huan’er’s understanding of him, if he hadn’t gotten past it mentally, he would prefer to be alone right now.

Accepting an unexpected turn takes time, and truly moving forward gracefully can only come from within.

When the evening self-study bell rang, Song Cong and Huan’er rushed out of the classroom one after another straight to the bike shed. They barely exchanged words on the way, focused only on pedaling as fast as they could. Even though they’d received news the surgery went well, doctors could only control physical inflammation – they were more worried about his mental state.

He had been moved to the inpatient room, lying flat, with cotton bandages wrapped from ankle to upper thigh. Huan’er counted – six tubes inserted in total. Seeing them arrive, Jing Qichi raised his right hand, forcing a somewhat bitter smile. His mom said the anesthesia had worn off and he wasn’t feeling well now.

“Does it hurt?” Huan’er asked him.

“My butt hurts,” the boy was his usual mischievous self.

A middle-aged doctor with a square face and glasses entered the room. Song Cong stood up to greet him, “Uncle Zhou.”

Mrs. Jing introduced them, “Old Zhou, you haven’t met Huan’er? She’s Lina’s daughter.”

“Hey, she looks like her mother!” Dr. Zhou smiled at Huan’er, then turned to Mrs. Jing, “Seeing these three reminds me of when Zhou You was in high school, with Old Liu’s Yunchuan and that girl Shanshan from Pediatrics – what was her name, Xiuxian? They were always together too, breathing through the same nostril. Time flies, they’re all grown up now.”

Mrs. Jing asked, “I heard Xiuxian became deputy director?”

“Ha, at the private hospital, it’s just a lateral move. The other day she was saying it’s too leisurely, and her hands are getting itchy. I say we’re in a siege – those inside are exhausted and want out, and those who’ve gone out miss coming back.”

“Shanshan’s expenses in America must be high, Xiuxian raising a child alone can’t be easy.” Mrs. Jing teased, “Any developments between your Zhou You and Shanshan? Growing up together and now both studying abroad, I think they’d make a good match.”

“I wish there were developments! But you know my boy, quiet as a bottle gourd. With the distance, all we can do is worry. If they were here, this father would push those ducks onto the bridge somehow.”

“You should usually…”

Jing Qichi, hearing them getting more and more animated, quickly interrupted, “Uncle Zhou, Uncle Zhou, didn’t you come to check on your patient? How long do I have to lie here?”

He didn’t dare move, face scrunched up like a puppet on strings, making everyone laugh.

Dr. Zhou checked his watch. “Another three hours, careful not to move your head. Where’s your dad?”

“Getting food,” Mrs. Jing answered for her son, glancing at him. “Now you know what it feels like to go hungry.”

“A young man not eating all day, must be starving.” Dr. Zhou put his hands in his white coat pockets. “Spirit seems good, one more day of lying down should do it. Take it slow when you get back, don’t rush mentally.”

“Mm.” Jing Qichi’s expression darkened.

That evening, no one mentioned soccer. Huan’er and Song Cong kept the conversation topics to what classes they had today, what homework teachers assigned, and who in class fought with whom over cleaning duty. Jing Qichi had some porridge, then slowly went to the bathroom with his father’s help. He still wasn’t asleep when they left.

He must have a lot on his mind, Huan’er thought, even though he seemed as fine as could be.