Like a farce drawing to a close, heavy snow fell, the city slept, and everything lay silent, as if nothing at all had happened.

The hospital was even quieter than usual; everyone had drifted off into the night.

Yet in one room in a corner, the lights blazed.

And even so, the person inside seemed on the verge of being swallowed whole by terror.

She wouldn’t even get on the bed, curled up instead against a corner, as if only with her back pressed to the wall could she feel even slightly safe.

——Whoosh.

Outside, the wind grew fiercer, like a blade scraping across skin.

Liang Xumo, jumping at shadows, went ashen at once, the last trace of color draining from her lips. She turned to look out the window, and at the sight of the tree shadows swaying in the pitch dark, her mind shattered instantly.

“Aaah——!!”

A scream that seemed as if it would tear straight through the sky.

She clawed madly at her own hair, as if trying to use it to block out her own vision, hugging her head tight, pressing herself down low, lower still.

No……don’t come looking for me……I didn’t do anything!

“You fell on your own……you fell on your own……” Liang Xumo stared fixedly at the floor, muttering under her breath, “It has nothing to do with me, nothing to do with me……”

Ever since Tong Shuqu had finished the surgery, and Qiao Qi had collapsed, Liang Xumo seemed to have suffered some severe psychological shock.

It had taken the nurses and doctors considerable effort to get her confined to a room.

Alone in the room, she’d still managed to bruise and injure herself all over, as though enemies and traps lurked in every corner.

She’d backed herself into a corner, as if desperate to burrow into a crack in the ground.

The doctors and nurses observing from outside the door were mostly surgical staff; faced with a scene like this — whether it was Liang Xumo having some genuine mental break or simply an episode of extreme shock — everyone stood there at a loss.

Only Tong Shuqu remained. Still dressed as he’d come from the operating room, still in his surgical gown, he stood at the door, his eyes fixed unmoving on Liang Xumo’s every move, watching her behavior, her expressions, missing not a single shift in her emotions.

Not until he was certain he’d heard Liang Xumo say, “Don’t come near me……”

did all his restraint collapse at once. Tong Shuqu tore the surgical gown off his own body.

——In this hospital, known for its gentle, warm-hearted reputation, Tong Shuqu, his eyes bloodshot red, shoved the door open and strode straight into the corner, hauling up Liang Xumo, who’d been sitting numbly on the floor.

The words came out from between his clenched teeth, one by one: “Tell me — how exactly did she fall! She’s always so careful! I warned her not to touch anything dirty, or the wound would get infected! I warned her!”

He was like a headless fly with nowhere to direct his mountain of questions — because the one person who could answer them had already been taken from his hands by death.

He’d lived more than thirty years, wrestled with death for many of them, sent off many patients, and brought many back.

But never before had a moment made him feel like this……made him feel like this……

As if he could never pick up a scalpel again.

He didn’t even need to close his eyes; Maiya’s fragile face filled his vision regardless.

Just a little while ago, she’d been telling him thank you, telling him goodnight.

The warmth of her small hand still seemed to linger in his palm.

At last he couldn’t speak anymore, could only force the words out from his throat, one syllable at a time: “You……tell……me.”

Tell him what.

What was there even to tell.

Tears of anguish welled up and spilled from Tong Shuqu’s swollen eyes; he struggled, tormented, self-reproaching, wracked with guilt — he genuinely, truly wished it were himself lying in the morgue right now.

His legs gave out; he dropped to one knee, his fingers nearly digging into the flesh of Liang Xumo’s arm.

He asked her, “Maiya……what exactly happened.”

But Liang Xumo was no longer in any state of normalcy; she couldn’t even seem to register the name “Maiya” — as if the mere sound of it might cause the girl to leap straight out of a pool of filthy water and splash it all over her face.

……Filthy water.

Liang Xumo lowered her head blankly, staring at the grime staining her own outer coat — the stains, unmistakably, taking shape into the silhouette of a child.

With eyes. With a mouth.

She was smiling.

She was crying, too.

She even reached out a hand, as if to strangle her!

“Aaah——!”

Liang Xumo suddenly shoved Tong Shuqu away, stumbling, tearing at the coat on her own body.

Filthy.

Filthy!

Dirty!

This had to be thrown away!

It all had to be thrown away!

Liang Xumo kept muttering “throw it away” over and over, tearing at her clothes wildly, her nails breaking, splitting, bleeding, with no reaction at all.

She just kept repeating: “Tear it off, tear it off, if I tear it off it’ll be fine! Tear it off and it’ll be clean!”

But she had no method to it at all — how could she possibly tear it off?

So Liang Xumo, as if suddenly snapping entirely, broke down, screaming, demanding: “Why won’t it come off! Why won’t it come off!”

Then she kept pressing herself further into the corner, muttering under her breath: “It’s got nothing to do with me……really, nothing to do with me……she fell……she fell into the bucket!”

As she spoke, she suddenly stood up, spinning in place, several full circles before she seemed to notice there was someone else in the room.

She grabbed hold of Tong Shuqu, eyes wide, insisting, “I’m the one who picked her up! I’m the one who picked her up!”

She kept repeating: “Really, it was me, I’m the one who carried her out! It has nothing to do with me! She fell on her own!!”

As she spoke, she looked down at the stains on her own body, grabbing at her clothes, desperately shoving them toward Tong Shuqu to see. “Liang Yan, look, this is proof, this is proof I picked her up, look! Look!!!”

She roared.

But even after roaring it out, she still felt it wasn’t enough. She began searching frantically. “Where’s Liang Yan! Where’s Liang Yan!! I need to tell Liang Yan! It’s got nothing to do with me!”

As for Tong Shuqu — he was in no better state himself.

He’d already sunk limp to the floor long ago, his arms wrapped slowly around his own head, a wet patch spreading, bit by bit, across the ground.

At that moment, the door opened again.

Liang Xumo, startled like a bird at the twang of a bow, whipped her head around — but she could still recognize who it was.

It was Liang Yan!

Her eyes lit up; she rushed over without hesitation.

She smiled, grabbing Liang Yan’s hand, showing him her clothes, telling him, “I’m the one who picked her up, really, I’m the one who picked her up.”

She was clearly in the midst of a mental breakdown, yet Liang Yan treated her as though she were perfectly ordinary and sane. He gave a soft “Mm,” turning his hand to clasp hers, seeming to coax her, gently guiding her along: “She fell, is that right?”

Liang Xumo nodded frantically, her eyes brightening. “You believe me, don’t you?”

Then she shook her head just as rapidly. “No! You won’t believe me, you won’t believe me! You already know, don’t you? You all already know! You all already know!”

Liang Yan’s brow furrowed; he wanted to ask what exactly she meant by that, but seeing her condition, he knew he wouldn’t get an answer that way, so he continued gently guiding her instead. “Why did she fall? Did she lose her footing?”

“She……” Liang Xumo seemed as if a hand had closed around her throat; her eyes suddenly went wide, wider and wider, as though she’d fallen into a memory.

She was seeing Maiya again.

She saw Maiya struggling in the water, saw Maiya’s eyes growing wider and wider.

Just like her own, right now.

She saw Maiya’s chest heaving harder and harder, then, finally, growing weaker and weaker with each breath, saw Maiya open her mouth and say: “You… wicked… woman!”

“Ah……” Liang Xumo, too, felt as though she couldn’t breathe; she gasped sharply, her expression twisting in pain. She bent double, grasping at her own throat, and after a moment began pounding wildly at her chest, growing more and more distressed.

Until finally, her eyes bloodshot, Liang Yan heard her say, brokenly: “Don’t……come find me……it’s your own fault……!”

Almost simultaneously, Liang Yan clamped his hand tight around Liang Xumo’s wrist.

The woman’s already frail, delicate wrist instantly bore a pale ring where the blood had been cut off.

Liang Yan looked at Liang Xumo, his eyes dark and heavy, and asked, “What did you say?”

Liang Xumo seemed to jolt awake, every sound cutting off at once, her whole body going rigid where she stood.

“Liang Yan……”

Liang Yan paid it no mind, staring at her. “I’m asking you — what did you say.”

Liang Xumo opened her mouth, and after several seconds, her eyes rolled back, and she fainted.

—

Chaos like this seemed to be all too ordinary an occurrence in a hospital. By the next morning, as the sun rose, its light refracted gold across the vast expanse of white snow.

The windows brightened, lighting up the room within.

Qiao Qi slowly opened her eyes, her gaze blank.

She lay unnervingly still, only staring at the ceiling, making no further move.

Not until the sound of footsteps back and forth in the hallway gradually rose, and outside the window came the cheerful noise of children playing joyfully in the snow, did Qiao Qi finally regain some awareness. Her emotions slowly settled over her mind; she blinked gently, and tears soaked into her pillow.

It had been nearly twenty years since Hu City had seen snow this heavy.

As if it were rushing to carry someone away, to erase some trace of a scent.

So that the living left behind would no longer be haunted by a trace that was never truly there.

“Click——”

A soft sound; the door opened.

Qiao Qi paid it no mind, not until someone sat down at the edge of the bed, a cold hand slipping under the blanket to gently take hers.

A wave of chill — cold enough that it made Qiao Qi’s heart ache.

She slowly turned her head, and saw Liang Yan sitting at the bedside, looking at her.

Young Master Liang, usually so radiant and handsome, had clearly gone without sleep all night — the skin that always looked its best now showed a hint of exhaustion, faint stubble shadowing his jaw, making him look, for once, like a man edging toward thirty.

The fatigue beneath his eyes was obvious too, faint traces of red clinging to his irises. He looked at her, and smiled instead, his tone full of careful, cautious tenderness.

“Awake?”

In that instant, Qiao Qi couldn’t hold it in any longer.

She pulled Liang Yan’s hand out from under the blanket and pressed it, along with her own, over her eyes.

A hoarse, stifled sob rose from her throat.

Liang Yan’s heart twisted at the sound; he slowly stood, without withdrawing his hand, and instead sat gently on the edge of the bed, offering her his own side to lean against.

It seemed that, in a situation like this, all he could give her was his presence, and this small, insignificant comfort.

“She really was……so fond of the snow……” Qiao Qi could hardly catch her breath; she wouldn’t lift her head, letting the tears flow freely through their laced-together fingers.

On this bitterly cold winter day, these tears felt like scalding oil, rolling one drop after another straight onto Liang Yan’s heart.

And so, on a morning like this — a morning that had seen someone off, and welcomed in a new season — Qiao Qi found herself, once again, forced to think back to that day nearly twenty years ago.

She said, “I always seem to be missing things.”

Always left with regret, too.

She’d missed the first moment of Maiya being sent away, just as she’d once missed the afternoon her Rainbow Sister had been sent away.

She said, “I wasn’t lying to you — I really did spend time at that candy factory.”

Four hours.

From afternoon until sunset.

Her Rainbow Sister’s birthday was coming up, and she’d wanted the sweetest, prettiest rainbow candy.

Before Rainbow Sister had come to Mingtian, not many people had actually been willing to play with Qiao Qi.

Because they always said Qiao Qi was the old Director’s child — the way a homeroom teacher’s kid never quite gets truly sincere friends at school — back then, Qiao Qi hadn’t had any friends she felt truly close to, either.

Even as a small child, she’d been able to sense the other children’s careful distance, their calculated attempts to curry favor with her.

So, in comparison, Rainbow Sister’s warmth and gentleness toward her had felt like family.

Rainbow Sister had once been the light in Qiao Qi’s life.

When her birthday came, Qiao Qi had wanted to give her candy, even if it meant a hard trek to the factory and back.

But all that hardship had seemed so trivial, compared to the bewilderment and hurt she’d felt upon learning Rainbow Sister had left.

“Actually, I wasn’t even that wronged by it. I was just… full of regret.”

Regret that she hadn’t gotten to see her off in person.

Regret that in all the years since, the two of them had never again been part of each other’s lives, not even in the smallest way.

Liang Yan knew Qiao Qi didn’t need him to chime in right now, but he couldn’t help himself, wanting to be part of her past, too.

As if doing so might make up, somehow, for the ache he felt on her behalf.

He asked, “Why did you call her Rainbow Sister?”

Qiao Qi sniffled, her eyes swollen; she could only stubbornly cover them with the back of her hand, not letting Liang Yan see.

Even though, in front of him, she’d already had the most sweeping emotional outpouring of her life.

“Because her name was Cai Hong,” she said. Bringing it up still made her feel a strange mix of amusement and warmth. “When I was little I couldn’t say it clearly, so it came out as ‘rainbow.'”

“I know something bad happened to her before she came to Mingtian, so later, when I grew up, I thought — maybe accidentally calling her Rainbow was, in its own way, a kind of blessing for the rest of her life.”

But Liang Yan, in that instant, seemed to hear nothing at all. He froze, his gaze dropping to Qiao Qi’s arm.

There was a bruise on her arm, about the size of a cookie — from when she’d fainted yesterday and knocked it against the arm of a chair.

Her skin was paler than usual, drained entirely of color, which made the bruise stand out all the more, jarring and stark.

Liang Yan stared at it, feeling as though the blood in his own body had frozen solid.

A sudden gust of wind seemed to sweep over him from nowhere; the temperature around Liang Yan plummeted, a wave of cold crawling up his back, dense and fine, like countless needles pricking into every vital point of his body.

He could barely get the words out; it took him a long while before he finally forced out, hoarse and dry, “What… was her name?”

Qiao Qi wiped roughly at her eyes, not noticing anything strange about Liang Yan. She only, stubbornly, awkwardly, pulled the blanket up to cover half her face.

Her voice came low from beneath the blanket. “Cai Hong.”

“She didn’t seem to like that name much.”

Didn’t like it, was more like it.

She probably didn’t want to claim that name at all — nor anything that had ever happened to her, or that she’d done, under it.

So tired.

Everyone seemed so tired.

Qiao Qi, gradually, without either of them noticing exactly when, drifted back to sleep.

Liang Yan looked down at her, his expression unreadable. After a while, he noticed a faint flush rising on her face and reached out to touch it.

Burning hot.

A fever.

Liang Yan got up at once to find Tong Shuqu. On the way, he thought back to Qiao Qi saying that day had been Rainbow’s birthday.

But Liang Yan clearly remembered — that had been a season when people were still wearing long pants and long sleeves.

It hadn’t been anywhere near Liang Xumo’s current claimed July birthday, kept up for nearly twenty years now.

Just how many lies had she told……

And how much truth had she buried.

And more than that — how many people had she hurt.

How many people had she let down.

Liang Yan’s steps, these past few, felt heavy, endless. He told Tong Shuqu Qiao Qi had a fever, and Tong Shuqu, though he himself looked utterly exhausted, still attended to it personally, taking Qiao Qi’s temperature.

In the silence of the room, turbulent waves surged beneath Liang Yan’s heart and behind his eyes.

Once Tong Shuqu had gotten Qiao Qi’s IV started, Liang Yan sat back down beside her.

He looked at her, trying to memorize every detail of her — her eyes, her nose, her mouth, every inch of her skin.

After a long while, he leaned in slowly and pressed a careful, lingering kiss to her still-warm forehead.

Then he opened his eyes, his gaze perfectly clear.

He took out his phone and sent Yu Min a message.

He wrote:

Aunt Yu.

What you mentioned before — behavior that doesn’t make sense, incoherent speech, sharp mood swings, tendencies toward violence and self-harm……

All of it.

Yu Min asked: Who?

Liang Yan replied: Cai Hong.

Author’s note:

The author: ……Can I show my face now? [peeks.jpg]