Morning crept in, reluctant and pale, slipping through the slats of the blinds like an uninvited guest. The sterile scent of disinfectant lingered in the cool air, mingling with the faint trace of medication still clinging to the back of Li Hua's throat.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, a canvas of bland white, dotted with faint cracks she'd memorized over the years. Each one a story, a mark of time passing without her.
The knock came, sharp and precise. Not the hesitant tap of a nurse or the soft shuffle of her mother. This was different.
She didn't have to turn her head to know.
Dr. Lin.
The door opened with that familiar squeak, grating against her nerves like nails on glass. She didn't bother to look. She didn't need to. The sound of polished heels clicking against the linoleum floor filled the room, followed by the faint rustle of papers being tucked neatly into a folder.
"Good morning, Li Hua," came the smooth, clinical voice, deceptively warm, like tea left out too long.
Li Hua's jaw clenched. She stared harder at the ceiling, as if willing herself to become part of it. To disappear.
Dr. Lin moved into her peripheral vision, the sharp lines of her tailored suit a contrast against the softness of the morning light. She settled into the chair beside the bed, crossing her legs with practiced ease, a pen poised between her fingers like a weapon disguised as an instrument of care.
"So," Dr. Lin began, her tone light, almost conversational. "How was your sleep last night?"
Li Hua remained silent.
The doctor waited, tapping the pen lightly against her notebook, the rhythmic sound a metronome of patience.
Li Hua blinked, her gaze drifting from the ceiling to the window. The same view. The same sky. But everything felt… different. Tainted.
She could still hear the gong in the back of her mind, faint and distant, like an echo stuck between worlds.
Dr. Lin sighed softly, as if disappointed but unsurprised. "Your father mentioned you've been doing better recently. Fewer episodes, less restlessness. But you're quiet today." A pause. "Did you have a nightmare, Li Hua?"
The name felt foreign on the doctor's tongue. Too clinical. Too detached.
Li Hua's throat tightened, but she said nothing. She wouldn't give Dr. Lin the satisfaction. Not this time.
Dr. Lin shifted slightly, leaning forward, her expression softening just enough to mimic concern. "You know talking about it helps. Keeping things bottled up never did you any favors."
Like you'd know, Li Hua wanted to snap, but the words stayed lodged in her chest.
Instead, she kept her eyes on the window, focusing on the thin streaks of clouds drifting lazily across the pale blue sky. She traced their shapes in her mind, letting them anchor her to something, anything, other than the lingering fragments of crimson silk and haunted eyes.
Dr. Lin exhaled, scribbling something into her notebook, the scratch of pen on paper grating in the sterile silence.
"If you won't talk to me," she said softly, "at least talk to your father. He worries, you know."
But she still didn't speak.
Dr. Lin eventually stood, smoothing out her suit, her professional mask slipping back into place. "I'll see you next week, Li Hua."
The sterile hum of silence had just begun to settle when the door creaked open. Dr. Lin's hand froze on the handle, her fingers tightening slightly, a flicker of something unreadable flashing across her face.
Standing on the other side was Zhou Ming.
Perfectly disheveled in the way rich men often were, effortless yet intentional. His tailored suit hugged him like an old friend, dark hair swept back just enough to show off the sharp lines of his face. And, of course, the smile. The one that never quite reached his eyes but was bright enough to convince anyone otherwise.
"Ah, Dr. Lin," he said smoothly, voice warm like sunlight filtered through glass. "Didn't expect to run into you here."
But of course, he had.
Li Hua watched from her bed, her body still but her mind sharp, catching every flicker, every glance. She saw the way Dr. Lin's spine straightened, the faint flush that crept just below her collar.
"Mr. Zhou," Dr. Lin replied, her tone perfectly neutral, like this was nothing more than a casual encounter. "I was just leaving."
But she didn't move right away. Neither did he.
For a heartbeat, the room felt too small, too crowded with unspoken things.
Then Zhou Ming stepped aside, letting Dr. Lin slip past him, their shoulders brushing for a second too long. A whisper of something passed between them, quick, subtle, but Li Hua saw it. She always saw it.
When the door clicked shut, Zhou Ming's mask shifted effortlessly. Gone was the restrained tension, replaced by that easy, practiced grin as he turned to Li Hua.
"Well, look at you," he said cheerfully, crossing the room with the lightness of someone who'd never known a real burden. "I brought you something special today."
He held up a small insulated container, the expensive kind, with delicate patterns etched along the sides. "Bird's nest soup. Auntie insisted, said it's good for your health."
Of course she did, Li Hua thought. Her mother's version of love had always come in neatly packaged containers and carefully wrapped boxes.
Zhou Ming set the container on the bedside table, pulling up a chair without waiting for an invitation. His presence filled the space, bright and charming, like fresh paint over cracked walls.
"I've got good news," he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "Signed the deal with the Han family this morning. Big one. Brought peace where, well… let's just say things were tense for a while."
His smile widened, all modesty and humble charm, as if he hadn't just accomplished what she had spent years trying to do before her world shattered on cold asphalt.
Li Hua's lips pressed into a thin line. She said nothing, but her silence wasn't empty, it was loaded, sharp-edged, heavy.
Zhou Ming didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just pretended not to. He was good at that.
"Everyone's relieved," he continued, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Your father's proud. Said it reminded him of himself back in the day."
Li Hua stared at him, her gaze cutting through his performance like glass. He didn't flinch. He never did. That was his talent, being untouchable, even when drowning in his own lies.
Zhou Ming stood up after a while, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his sleeves. "I'll come by again soon. Maybe next time you'll even talk to me, huh?" He winked, as if this was all just part of some inside joke between them.
She didn't laugh.
The soft click of the door echoed longer than it should have, settling over Li Hua like a thin film she couldn't shake off.
Her gaze drifted to the small glass jar on her bedside table, half-filled with tiny, colorful paper stars, fragile little things she'd been folding for the past four years. They were the only things she could control, the only pieces of her life she could still create with precision, even when her body betrayed her.
She reached for the paper strips, fingers moving with practiced ease, folding, creasing, tucking. A rhythm she didn't have to think about. A distraction.
But her mind wasn't so easily tamed.
The images from her nightmare slithered back, vivid and uninvited, flashes of red, the relentless beat of a ceremonial gong, the sway of an ornate palanquin against a hazy backdrop. Voices layered over each other, like whispers pressed against her skull.
"The Third Princess is finally getting her wish."
"Poor man, marrying her must be the worst fate."
"Incompetent. Such a disgrace to the royal line."
Incompetent.
The word curled around her like a cold hand, digging into the hollow spaces she tried so hard to ignore.
Li Hua's fingers faltered. The neat fold slipped, creasing unevenly. She blinked, jaw tightening, and tried again. Another star. Another distraction.
But then Zhou Ming's face flashed behind her eyes, that smile, polished and hollow, like glass over rot. The deal with the Han family. The deal with the Han's.
Her breath hitched, fingers trembling slightly. She pressed harder, the paper protesting under the strain. She folded, creased, tucked, again and again, as if the motion could drown out the noise in her head.
But the stars came out crooked.
Frustration burst in her chest, sharp and bitter. She swept the jar off the table with one swift motion, watching it tumble to the floor.
The scattered paper stars stared back at Li Hua like little failures, jagged edges and crooked folds mocking her from the sterile white floor. The hollow ache in her chest grew louder, an echo that didn't belong in the silence but refused to leave. She needed a distraction, anything.
Her eyes darted to the phone resting on the table, just out of reach.
She gritted her teeth, shifting her weight, forcing her arms to push, to drag, to move. Her muscles strained, trembling under the effort. The sheets tangled around her waist, her body refusing to cooperate like it used to. But stubbornness had always been her strongest weapon.
With a desperate lurch, she reached out, fingers grazing the phone, only to lose her balance entirely.
Her body hit the cold floor with a dull, heavy thud. The table wobbled, then crashed down beside her, spilling everything, papers fluttering, a glass shattering, the sharp crack slicing through the quiet like a scream.
But Li Hua didn't care.
She didn't even flinch.
The cold seeped into her skin, mingling with the burning frustration lodged in her chest. Her breathing grew ragged, uneven. She tried to suck in air, but it felt like inhaling through a straw, tight, restricted, useless.
Her hands clawed at the floor, fingers scraping over shards of glass, indifferent to the sting. The walls felt closer, the ceiling heavier, pressing down, down, down. Her heart raced, each beat loud and frantic in her ears, like it was trying to escape her ribcage.
Her vision swam, tears blurring the edges, not from pain, but from the sheer weight of it all. The years of being trapped in this fragile, broken body. The pity in people's eyes disguised as kindness. The fake smiles. The hollow reassurances.
She was suffocating.
She squeezed her eyes shut, nails digging into her palms, trying to ground herself, trying to feel something other than the crushing emptiness swallowing her whole. But even that wasn't enough.
Her body refused to move the way she wanted. Her mind refused to be quiet.
And for the first time in a long time, Li Hua wasn't just paralyzed.
She was drowning.
The world around her spun, everything blurring into a whirl of colors, light and shadow dancing just out of reach. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so lost.
Get up, she thought, but the words slipped through her mind, ungraspable like sand through her fingers.
Then,
"Li Hua!"
A voice cut through the fog. Soft, but firm, familiar. It was the nurse, her steady hand on Li Hua's shoulder, the voice laced with concern.
But it was too late.