“Jing Qi Chi, let me return a joke to you.”

Huan’er calmed down somewhat, loosening her fist.

“I was premature, born with a tumor in my brain. Medical conditions were limited then, and being born in Sishui made it worse. The surgery wasn’t very successful, and the hospital declared I wouldn’t survive. Of course, my father told me all this later. He said everyone had given up – my grandparents, relatives, the hospital doctors, even he, helpless. They were both young then, so having another child wouldn’t have been a problem. But not my mom – she felt that bringing me into this world without letting me see it wasn’t right.”

“She asked everyone she could, questioned every classmate and colleague with any medical knowledge, spent days and nights researching materials and medical records, and sent documents and emails to pediatric specialists abroad. Maybe she moved heaven and earth, or maybe I was just lucky, but later I was transferred to a major hospital in Beijing for a second surgery. It succeeded, and I survived. My dad loves photography – if he hadn’t taken those pictures then, I wouldn’t have known how difficult my early life was. Always in hospitals, from incubator to ward, discharge then follow-up, follow-up finding problems then readmission – I was dealt about the worst hand possible.”

“When I first started elementary school, I once fainted while playing with classmates. The hospital couldn’t find the cause – probably some aftereffects, I was always sickly. That’s when my dad started teaching me martial arts, afraid I’d collapse again if someone just pushed me. Running, punching bags – exercise was the biggest thing in my house. Later when the county got a martial arts gym, I started training systematically. Remember when I won the Sishui Flower competition? My talent showpiece was a routine I practiced with my dad. You all thought it was impressive, but for my parents, it was all about saving my life – no one knows what might happen in the future, just in case.”

“My name is Chen Huan’er. Say it again – doesn’t it sound a bit strange? Back then in the hospital, doctors would call patients ‘Bed Three’ or ‘Bed Five,’ and my mom would startle at those words, always feeling they were calling for me. She said since we couldn’t help the situation, we could only try to turn the bad into good. They hoped I would grow up happily amid joy and laughter, so they changed those two characters and gave them to me as my name.”

“So, Jing Qi Chi, I despise any behavior that treats life as a game. When some people struggle so hard just for a glimmer of hope to live, what right do healthy people have to carelessly throw away their lives? I can’t guarantee everything will pass – if I hadn’t survived, things would have passed but my parents would think about it their whole lives. I just know that doing nothing definitely won’t make things pass – your guilt toward your uncle, your debt to your aunt, that barrier in your heart – the more you avoid them, the worse they’ll make you feel.”

The autumn wind is clear, and the autumn moon is bright. Fallen leaves gather then scatter, cold crows perch then startle into flight.

In the deep October night, the two stood facing each other, their breathing alternating.

These were long, heartfelt words – Chen Huan’er had never said so much to him, but Jing Qi Chi took in every word. He finally understood why she always lied about being healthy and suddenly realized why she was reluctant to mention the origins of her martial arts skills.

That night, she told him a story she had never told anyone and never planned to tell anyone.

Because the story was tragic and long, spanning her past, present, and even future. Aunt Lina would rage at the sight of swollen veins – that was her parents and family still anxious to this day, treating minor illnesses like major crises. Surviving was a miracle, and seeing this world was fate’s gift, but do miracles and gifts have time limits? No one knew, nor could they know.

Jing Qi Chi understood why Chen Huan’er had never mentioned this before – as the protagonist of this tragic story, she dared not speak of it, feeling that telling it would remind heaven, and she desperately wanted to be forgotten.

Don’t remember me, don’t think of me, don’t see me, just let me live an ordinary life.

But he also understood perfectly why Huan’er would tell him now – he had sunk so deep that self-help could no longer have any effect, so he had decided to give up, end it all, disappearing from this world along with those feelings of guilt and unresolvable regret that had nowhere to go. Perhaps, only this way could he see his father again, that person he thought of day and night but who was now only a shadow. He missed him.

Tree shadows swayed, the evening wind stirring leaves into rustling sounds.

“I…” his throat cracked as Jing Qi Chi made a sound, his eyes unconsciously reddening again.

A man’s tears don’t fall easily – he covered his eyes with both hands, telling himself this would be the last time.

The last time crying, the last time feeling guilty, the last time being foolish.

Huan’er stepped forward and hugged him from the side, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, patting his back with one hand.

All words had been said, and everything possible had been done – what came after would be Jing Qi Chi’s lesson to learn.

After a long while, she let go, then grabbed his wrist, “Let’s go back. I’ll wait for you at the compound entrance tomorrow morning.”

Side by side, she pulled him along, and he willingly followed, both walking silently in the moonlight toward home.

Before parting, Jing Qi Chi asked, “Your health… is it still a problem?”

Huan’er looked at him, her gaze as clear as moonlight, “If you’re okay, then I’m okay.”

The next morning, Jing Qi Chi appeared punctually at the compound entrance. His uniform was clean, though his bicycle was visibly dusty. His eyes were slightly swollen, last night’s tears honestly transformed into visible signs. Stubble lined his mouth, unkempt from the past week without care, as he had never paid much attention to appearances. As for his face…

Huan’er took the lead on her bike, riding for a while before apologizing, “I couldn’t hold back yesterday, used too much force.”

She had made his face swell, and why had she only hit the right side? If she’d punched both sides it wouldn’t have been so obvious.

“I need to thank you,” Jing Qi Chi looked straight ahead, “Sincerely.”

If the previous days had been the pain of losing his father, then returning home last night to find his mother sitting alone in the living room, lost in thought, filled him with complete remorse. His mother hadn’t asked why he was late, she had only pointed to his uniform drying on the balcony – I have to leave early for the hospital tomorrow, if it’s not dry use the hairdryer.

As if mother and son shared one heart, he hadn’t told her he was ready to return, but she just knew.

Then his mother turned off the living room light, saying get some sleep early.

Jing Qi Chi answered in the darkness, “Mom, you still have me.”

He had almost, just almost lost himself. All these days he had only focused on his regret, never once thinking about sharing his mother’s grief. They were bearing the same weight of loss – it was his father but also her loved one. He had nearly worsened this tragedy, and he was infinitely grateful he hadn’t continued down that wrong path.

There was so little he could do.

He had cried, hurt, and screamed. After these dazed days, and these sleepless nights had passed, Jing Qi Chi found he had no other way except to be a son they could be proud of.

Legally, he wasn’t even considered an adult with full civil capacity yet.

After an early self-study period, Jing Qi Chi was called to Teacher Xu’s office. He didn’t return until halfway through first-period English. Huan’er glanced back – his physics textbook lay open on his desk, where it had remained for many days.

Everything seemed normal – he ate, went home, still skipped between-class exercises – every time the classroom became lively again, Jing Qi Chi wouldn’t look up, his single-minded appearance making him seem like a different person. Others didn’t know what had happened to him, only the boys in the back rows who were close to him joked that senior year was really a slaughterhouse, even the fearless Jing Qi Chi had started studying.

It was late October then, just over half a year until that life-changing exam.

On weekends, Huan’er would go to Jing’s house to do homework. She’d arrive at eight in the morning to find him already studying, and when she left after ten at night, he would still be at it. He would ask questions occasionally, and Huan’er naturally answered everything she could. Sometimes Song Cong would come, seizing the chance to explain complex problems to them both, summarizing key points. Song Ma had returned to work at the hospital, facing many difficulties at work, so Song Cong had little time for friends.

One evening, Jing Ma came to visit, and Huan’er eavesdropped through the door crack. Jing Ma said Qi Chi probably knew why his dad had switched shifts, and like he was traumatized, he studied until late every night.

Chen Ma worried whether his body could handle it.

Jing Ma sighed, saying he wouldn’t listen to advice and couldn’t be stopped. Yesterday while cleaning his room, she found blood-stained tissues in the trash. When asked, she learned it wasn’t an injury but nosebleeds – when had this boy ever had nosebleeds except when playing football?

Everyone said Jing Qi Chi was traumatized, but only Chen Huan’er understood – he was forcing himself to atone.

What he owed, he wanted to repay. That was all.

By the final exam, Jing Qi Chi had reached the lower ranks of the class, with his math score reaching the upper ranks of the grade.

Huan’er had squeezed to the podium to check the score sheet and told him the scores and rankings – the person concerned only nodded in acknowledgment as if not yet reaching the destination, showing no interest in the scenery along the way.

During winter break, Huan’er’s father returned, and the family of three went back to their Sishui hometown for New Year. On New Year’s Eve, Huan’er had a group voice chat with her two friends. She and Song Cong were excitedly discussing the Spring Festival Gala programs when Jing Qi Chi, who had been silent, suddenly asked, “Isn’t potassium permanganate not the catalyst for potassium chlorate’s oxygen decomposition?”

The group fell silent for a moment, then the questioner continued, “Is it not?”

Song Cong burst out laughing, “On a day like today, can’t you show some holiday spirit?”

“I’m watching,” Jing Qi Chi laughed too, “That close-up magic was pretty good.”

Jing Ma’s voice came through, “What’s pretty good about it, they’re all plants. Either watch TV, study, or chat – how can you do three things at once?”

Huan’er chuckled before answering, “No, potassium permanganate decomposes to form manganese dioxide, which is the catalyst.”

“Oh, I see.” Jing Qi Chi made a note, but deliberately stirred trouble, “Song, is this right? Someone might be misleading the masses.”

“You dare.” Huan’er huffed angrily.

Song Cong laughed loudly, “Teacher Chen gave the standard answer, stop teasing her.”

The New Year’s bells began to ring.

The door to adulthood had just opened, and everyone was already walking forward under their burdens. These moments of joy were like flowers blooming on a rocky cliff – fragile and precious, but travelers couldn’t stop. They could only silently wish in their hearts to meet again if fate allowed.