Fang Li sat quietly in her hospital bed, gazing at the soft morning light filtering through the window. The sterile white walls seemed to close in on her, a stark contrast to the ornate palace chambers she remembered. It had been only yesterday when she woke from the coma, but the realization that her life as Yang Ning was nothing more than a dream still felt raw, like a fresh wound that wouldn't stop aching.
Her mind was a whirlwind—pain, confusion, and a hollow sense of loss gnawed at her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold onto the memory of Zheng Liang's face, the warmth of his touch, the sound of his voice. But the more she reached for those memories, the further they drifted away, slipping like sand through her fingers.
"It can't all have been a lie," she whispered to herself, her hand instinctively moving to her flat stomach. The phantom sensation of life stirring within her still lingered—a cruel reminder of something that never was.
