The room smelled of antiseptic and faint regret, sterile, cold, and suffocating despite the large window that framed a slice of the world Li Hua could no longer touch. The glass reflected a gray sky, smeared with streaks of late afternoon light, indifferent to her existence. She stared at it anyway, letting her mind drift to the spaces her body couldn't follow.
The wheelchair sat untouched in the corner, like an old friend she'd grown to despise. It mocked her with its presence, a reminder of what was, of what could never be again. Seven years of this life. Seven years since the accident had stolen not just her ability to walk but something deeper, something stitched into the marrow of who she used to be.
Her hands lay motionless against the thin hospital blanket, fingers curled slightly, as if even they had forgotten how to reach. She blinked slowly, her gaze hollow, following the distant shape of a bird outside. Free. Unburdened. Alive.
The door creaked open softly, a sound Li Hua had grown used to but never welcomed.
"Li Hua," the nurse's voice was too bright for the dimness of the room, slicing through the quiet like an unwelcome guest. Her name sounded foreign now, like it belonged to someone else, someone who'd run barefoot in the rain, danced without worrying about falling, lived without thinking of endings.
The nurse approached with practiced efficiency, a small tray balanced in her hands. Pills in neat little rows. Li Hua didn't look at her. She didn't need to. She knew the routine, had memorized it in the same way one memorizes the pattern of cracks on a ceiling.
"Time for your meds." The nurse's smile was soft, careful, as if Li Hua might shatter if touched the wrong way.
Li Hua's jaw clenched. She didn't respond, didn't move. The rebellion was pointless, but it was all she had left.
The nurse sighed quietly, the patience in her voice thinning around the edges. "Li Hua, you need to take them. You know that."
No, she didn't need to. Not really. What difference did it make? Pills wouldn't fix what was broken. They wouldn't rewind time, wouldn't give her back the life she'd lost on a stretch of wet asphalt and shattered glass.
"I'm tired of them," Li Hua whispered finally, her voice rough from disuse, the words like stones she'd been holding in her chest for too long.
The nurse paused, setting the tray down on the bedside table with a soft clink. "I know." There was a kindness there, one that Li Hua both resented and craved. "But they help."
Help. A fragile word, worn thin from overuse.
Li Hua's eyes drifted back to the window. The bird was gone now, leaving only the sky, vast, empty, endless. She felt like that sky sometimes. Hollow.
But she opened her mouth anyway, letting the nurse feed her the pills one by one. Bitterness bloomed on her tongue, sharp and familiar. She swallowed them down, not because she wanted to, but because it was easier than fighting.
Li Hua stared at the window long after the sky had darkened, wondering if the bird had found its way home.
Li Hua's reflection stared back at her from the window, hollow-eyed, gaunt, framed by limp strands of hair that no longer held the luster of ambition or youth. She barely recognized the woman she'd become, a ghost stitched into sterile sheets and forgotten dreams.
The door slid open with a soft hiss, cutting through the silence. She didn't turn. Didn't need to. The faint whiff of her mother's perfume, a delicate blend of jasmine and regret, drifted in before her voice did.
"Li Hua, look who's here," her mother chirped, overly bright, the kind of forced cheerfulness that made Li Hua's skin itch.
Footsteps approached, casual, confident. The familiar rhythm of someone who'd never had to second-guess his place in the world. She finally turned her head, her neck stiff from hours of stillness.
Zhou Ming, her cousin, stood there, a fruit basket cradled in his arms like some ironic offering, his smile polished to perfection. It was the same smile he wore in every company photo, the one that never quite reached his eyes. His tailored suit hugged his frame impeccably, as if even fabric bowed to his charm.
"Li Hua," he greeted warmly, his voice dipped in feigned affection. The way he said her name made her chest tighten, not with nostalgia, but with the bitter aftertaste of suspicion.
She let her gaze drift to the basket. Apples. Oranges. Grapes. The fruits of guilt, wrapped neatly in cellophane.
"How are you feeling today?" Zhou Ming asked, pulling up a chair beside her bed as if he belonged there.
Li Hua's lips twitched, not enough to be a smile. "Alive," she replied flatly, her voice as brittle as the winter light spilling through the window.
Her mother fussed with the blanket, tucking it in where it didn't need tucking, as if rearranging the fabric could somehow fix the fractures beneath. "Ming has been so busy with the company, but he insisted on visiting today."
Of course he did. The dutiful cousin, the perfect son. The man who had stepped into her shoes the moment she'd been too broken to fill them.
"That's thoughtful," Li Hua murmured, her gaze sliding to him like a blade. She wondered if he could feel the sharp edge of it beneath her calm exterior.
Zhou Ming leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with practiced ease. "The company's doing well," he said, as if that was supposed to comfort her. "We've made significant progress with the expansion projects you started. I've just been… carrying on your legacy."
Carrying on, she thought. More like carrying off.
She studied him, the curve of his smile, the relaxed set of his shoulders. Too perfect. Too rehearsed. Seven years, and not a single crack in the mask. If he was behind the accident, he'd hidden it well. No slip-ups. No confessions. Just charm wrapped around a hollow core.
Her fingers twitched slightly, a ghost of a movement, a fragment of defiance.
"That's good," she said, her tone smooth, indifferent. But her eyes, they held the truth. The questions she couldn't ask. The accusations she couldn't prove.
Zhou Ming reached over, placing a gentle hand on her arm, his touch light, brotherly. "We all miss the old days, Hua. You were always the brightest among us."
And you were always in my shadow, she wanted to say. But the words stayed buried beneath layers of polite indifference.
Her mother smiled, oblivious, filling the room with empty chatter about family dinners and new business ventures. Li Hua let it wash over her, her mind drifting back to the night of the accident, the rain-slick roads, the blinding headlights, the feeling of weightlessness just before everything shattered.
When they finally left, the room grew quiet again. But the silence felt heavier now, thick with the echoes of unspoken truths.
Li Hua turned back to the window, her reflection waiting for her. She studied it closely, searching for the woman she used to be. She wasn't gone, not completely. Just buried.
....
The night pressed down like a weighted blanket, suffocating and thick. Shadows curled in the corners of Li Hua's sterile room, stretching beyond the cold white walls, slipping into the fragile seams of her consciousness. The steady beep of the heart monitor faded, drowned beneath the pull of sleep, if it could be called that.
Darkness.
Then,
A gong thundered, splitting through the void, its reverberations clawing at her chest. It wasn't the hollow chime of a hospital machine or the distant hum of city life. This was ancient, raw, a pulse that didn't just echo but bled into her very bones.
Flashes of red flooded her vision. Not the sterile red of hospital signs or warning lights, but vibrant, decadent crimson. Silk banners rippled like tongues of fire, suspended from towering gates carved with symbols she didn't recognize. Lanterns bobbed in the distance, their glow smothered under a bruised, ash-gray sky.
The ground trembled beneath the rhythmic pounding of drums, followed by another gong, deeper this time, as if the world itself had been struck.
She wasn't in her hospital bed anymore. She wasn't anywhere she knew.
The scent of sandalwood and something metallic, like old coins or faint blood, lingered in the air.
A palanquin emerged, its lacquered frame dripping with intricate gold filigree, carried by faceless figures dressed in ancient attire. Rich fabrics brushed against dusty roads, their hems stained by footsteps of celebration, or was it mockery?
She heard laughter, sharp and brittle. Voices bled through the haze, words laced with both jest and cruelty.
"The Third Princess's wish is finally fulfilled. Imagine holding onto a childhood sweetheart for so long—such persistence."
"Persistence or desperation?" Another voice snickered. "Poor Chen Yuze. The Left Prime Minister's son, now reduced to a mere side consort. What an unfortunate fate."
The names felt foreign yet unsettlingly familiar, like echoes of something she'd never known but should have.
Her gaze, if it was her gaze, locked onto the palanquin. The curtains swayed with the motion, offering fleeting glimpses inside. She expected to see royalty, some ethereal beauty cloaked in jewels and power.
But it wasn't a princess.
It was a man.
Delicate features, sharp yet refined, framed by strands of dark hair tied with crimson ribbons. His eyes, haunted, hollow, resigned, met hers for the briefest of moments through the thin veil.
Chen Yuze.
The name carved itself into her mind with an ache she couldn't explain.
The palanquin passed, swallowed by the sea of red and gold, leaving her standing alone in the aftermath. The world flickered, the voices fading into static, distorted and stretched.
Then, another flash.
This time, a mirror. But the reflection staring back wasn't hers.
It was someone else entirely.
A woman dressed in imperial robes, her expression carved from stone, yet her eyes burned with something fierce, rage, grief, ambition. A name whispered through the void, soft but relentless.
Feng Yuyan.
Li Hua jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat, the remnants of crimson still staining the edges of her vision. The beep of the heart monitor returned, sharp and jarring, anchoring her back to reality.