When Tao Zhi and Tao Xiuping walked out of the radiology inpatient department, neither of them spoke.

There were many people waiting to handle the paperwork. Ji Fan had already been in line for more than ten minutes, and only two-thirds of the people ahead of him had finished. The young man was growing impatient, fanning himself left and right with the small hospitalization booklet in his hand. When he turned around, he happened to see her waiting by the door.

The boy grinned, revealing a row of white teeth, and waved at her.

Tao Zhi’s first instinct at that moment was—she absolutely could not let Ji Fan know about this matter.

Unlike her, Ji Fan had never been separated from Ji Jin since he was little. She had watched him grow from babbling to toddling, from a small boy into a tall, upright youth. Every single day, he had grown up under her companionship.

When she became aware of that fact, Tao Zhi couldn’t help but feel a faint, very faint sense of being left behind. Yet, the truth was that Ji Fan’s feelings and dependence on Ji Jin were probably far deeper than what she herself shared with him now.

Tao Zhi raised her hand; her cold fingers pressed hard against her burning eyes, and she spoke softly, “My matter, did you tell Mom?”

Tao Xiuping gazed from afar at the young man in the crowd. “No.”

Tao Zhi nodded.

She understood what Tao Xiuping meant, and she also knew why this matter—hidden for so long—was suddenly told to her today.

If Ji Jin were to know about this, what would her reaction be? Tao Zhi didn’t even have to guess.

Tao Xiuping might no longer oppose as firmly as before; instead, he was using this silent way to dissuade her, to tell her that, at this critical moment, she could not afford to be willful.

The bright lobby was packed with people. In front of every counter, the lines coiled into long, snake-like curves, weaving and colliding, orderly yet chaotic, twisting and threading through their own spaces.

It was like the little “Snake” game from childhood—eating one pellet after another, watching the snake grow longer and longer, filling up the entire screen, and feeling full of satisfaction inside.

Only this time, when she reached the end, staring at the crowded screen, Tao Zhi suddenly felt a bit lost.

She didn’t know which direction was the right way to go anymore.

No matter which path she chose, it seemed she would crash into that long trailing tail and lose everything, all returning to zero.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Tao Zhi stayed home for the weekend.

Aunt Zhang made her nourishing soups of all kinds every day, determined to bring them upstairs for all three meals and forbidding her from getting out of bed. She even made sure to watch her finish every last drop.

The arrangement was so excessive that Tao Zhi almost thought she had suffered a full-body comminuted fracture.

She was already fine; only the deepest wound behind her ear, where the stitches had been removed, was still slowly healing.

On Monday, she rushed eagerly back to school.

After being absent for a week, everything seemed unchanged—except that winter break was drawing near, and because of the upcoming final exams, the studying atmosphere was more intense and concentrated than usual.

Finally, someone had appeared in the last two rows of the first group. Fu Xiling, who had been sitting alone staring at three empty seats, was so overjoyed she nearly cried. The moment she saw Tao Zhi, the girl ran up and hugged her. “Zhizhi!”

It was the first time Tao Zhi had ever been greeted so openly; she was suddenly at a loss for what to do. She hurriedly patted the girl’s back. “Hey, I’m here, I’m here.”

But Fu Xiling refused to let go no matter what. “Zhizhi.”

Tao Zhi patiently responded, “I’m back, I’m back.”

Fu Xiling rubbed her head against her and whispered, “Your chest is so soft.”

Tao Zhi: “…”

The group of one person who had been fighting alone at the empty seats had now turned into a trio—one class leader, one half-baked student, and one useless member. Jiang Qihuai’s seat, however, remained empty.

If it had been before, after being discharged and escaping Tao Xiuping’s watchful eyes, the first thing she would have done was to threaten and coax Ji Fan into revealing Grandpa Jiang’s ward number so she could go see Jiang Qihuai. But now, she hesitated.

Her little “snake” was wandering aimlessly within its cage, crashing into the hard walls until its head bled—yet it still couldn’t find a way forward.

For an entire week, it was the first time she hadn’t sent Jiang Qihuai a single WeChat message.

On Saturday morning, Tao Xiuping went to the company for a meeting. Tao Zhi’s tutoring lessons for the past two weeks had all been temporarily suspended. She got dressed neatly, went to the doorway, and bent down to put on her shoes, preparing to go out.

Ji Fan had just woken up. As soon as he came downstairs, he saw her standing by the door, putting on her gloves.

The boy’s motion of ruffling his hair paused. “Are you going to the hospital?”

Tao Zhi lowered her head, silently sliding her hands into the soft woolen gloves. Her five fingers spread out, filling the space.

Ji Fan didn’t say anything more. He walked down the stairs into the kitchen, and as he passed the entryway, he only tossed out one sentence: “603.”

Tao Zhi froze for a moment, then lifted her head to look over.

The boy didn’t turn around. With his back to her, he gave a cool little wave. “Be careful.”

Tao Zhi pressed her lips together and left the house.

By the time she reached the hospital, it was close to noon. Tao Zhi first went to the radiology inpatient ward.

Standing at the doorway of the room, she looked inside—Ji Jin wasn’t there. The room was empty. On the windowsill stood two small pots of unknown plants, their tender leaves slowly stretching open and climbing along the edge of the window.

Tao Zhi waited for a while. Then, soft footsteps came from the corridor.

She turned around.

Ji Jin was walking alone, head lowered. Tao Zhi didn’t know whether chemotherapy and radiation always caused hair loss, but her hair didn’t seem to have fallen—it was still that same long, black length, neatly tied behind her head, making her pale face appear even smaller.

Her figure was thin, so thin she could barely hold up the loose white hospital clothes. The whole person looked terribly weary, moving forward slowly, step by step.

As if sensing her gaze, Ji Jin suddenly lifted her head.

She looked at her—first dazed, blank, then slowly coming back to herself. With some uncertainty, she called out softly, “Zhizhi?”

Tao Zhi opened her mouth, but before any sound came out, tears were already spilling down uncontrollably.

She forced herself to swallow the sob in her throat and said softly, “Mom.”

Ji Jin closed her eyes, her whole body swaying a little.

Tao Zhi hurriedly wiped her tears away and ran forward in panic to support her. The instant her hand touched the woman’s arm, Tao Zhi vividly and directly felt her fragility—through the fabric, her fingertips could almost trace the outline of her bones.

Tao Zhi lowered her head, biting her lip hard, tears dripping onto the woman’s pale hand.

Ji Jin sighed softly, then embraced her.

“Why are you crying,” her voice was weak, yet still gentle and soft. “Being able to see Zhizhi here, Mom is actually very happy.”

“Even though I kept it from you all this time, not telling you, not wanting you to worry or be upset—now that I really see you standing here, Mom feels very, very happy.”

The woman’s embrace was still warm and tender, carrying the faint scent of medicine and disinfectant that couldn’t conceal that familiar smell of home.

It felt as though everything had changed, yet also as though nothing had changed at all.

In that instant, all those past things—the lonely, cold nights, the awkward distance between them—Tao Zhi couldn’t recall any of them. Only the warmth she had once been surrounded with came flooding into her mind all at once.

Her mother, who smiled softly; her mother, who pinched her nose in worry; her mother, who sang gently to her and tucked her in at night; her mother, who stroked her hair and said, Zhizhi is the most sensible child—the mother who loved her.

Tao Zhi held her and nearly couldn’t speak through her sobs. She choked out, her words muffled, “I didn’t know anything… I left you all alone… I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Ji Jin began to cry as well. She held her tightly. “Zhizhi, you have nothing to be sorry for. It’s Mom who failed you. Zhizhi has been so good and even took care of Dad on her own. It’s Mom who didn’t do her duty, who didn’t take good care of you, who didn’t look after you as you grew up.”

A little boy from the next ward came out when he heard the noise. Tilting his head, he looked at them—he seemed a little frightened and didn’t dare go closer. He just stood there and called out cautiously, “Auntie Ji?”

Tao Zhi loosened her arms, sniffled, and slowly turned around.

The little boy pressed his lips together and walked over bit by bit, then whispered comfortingly, “Auntie went to shine that light, right? That light hurts, but it’s okay—after shining it, the illness will get better.”

Tao Zhi wiped her tears messily and nodded again and again.

She helped Ji Jin back to the ward. The little boy followed them with his sketchbook in his arms, step by step, until his mother called him back.

He looked reluctant, unwilling to leave. “Then big sister can stay and play with Auntie first. A’Li will come back later.”

Ji Jin smiled and responded to him.

Tao Zhi went into the small bathroom attached to the ward and washed her face. The cold water splashed against her cheeks, cooling her down quite a bit. She looked at herself in the mirror, then scooped another handful of water to pat over her eyes.

She mustn’t be sad—she was the little ball of sunshine at home.

Taking a deep breath, she finally stepped back out.

Ji Jin was already lying on the bed. Tao Zhi picked up a big apple from the table, sat by the bedside, and clumsily began peeling it piece by piece.

She peeled the apple as if she were peeling a potato—the skin came off with large chunks of flesh falling into the trash. Ji Jin didn’t say anything, only watched her quietly before suddenly asking, “Your dad said you recently have a boy you like?”

Tao Zhi’s hand trembled. Crack—a large piece of the apple came off with the peel.

Ji Jin smiled. “Our Zhizhi really has grown up, hasn’t she? You’ve started to like boys now. What kind of boy is he?”

Tao Zhi lowered her head. Her mood was still low, and she said softly, “Just… a really good person.”

“He’s amazing. He gets first place in every exam, always scores full marks in math, and works hard in life.”

“His family’s situation isn’t good?” Ji Jin asked after hearing that.

Tao Zhi nodded gloomily. “His father… isn’t well.”

Ji Jin sighed. “When I first met your dad, his family wasn’t well off either—he was just a poor boy. But he was hardworking. I just thought he had this drive, this energy, that really drew me to him.”

“Later, the two of us got together, got married, had you and A’Fan. Even though we didn’t share the same pace—what I wanted in life and what he wanted were too different, and we couldn’t reconcile it—so we eventually separated. But looking back now, I still don’t regret choosing to be with him back then.”

Ji Jin turned her head and looked at her. “Zhizhi, you too—just go and do what you want to do. Do the kind of thing that, even after a few years or decades, when you look back, you’ll still feel that your choice back then was truly worth it.”

Perhaps because the treatment had drained too much of her strength, by the time Tao Zhi finished peeling the apple, Ji Jin had already fallen asleep.

Tao Zhi placed the first apple she had ever peeled in her life into a small bowl, stood up to wash her hands, then gently tucked the blanket over her and quietly closed the door to the ward.

When she stepped out of the radiology inpatient department, the sun was blazing overhead—it was lunchtime. The canteen’s food cart was parked beside the wall of the main lobby, and the cafeteria auntie stood behind it, ladling porridge one bowl at a time for the people in line.

Tao Zhi walked to the elevator and pressed for the sixth floor.

She found Room 603. The door was slightly ajar. Standing at the entrance, she pressed her lips together and knocked lightly.

After a few seconds—or perhaps a few minutes—the door was pulled open from inside.

Jiang Qihuai stood in the doorway, holding a small thermos in his hand. When he saw her, his gaze paused.

The boy, whom she hadn’t seen for half a month, didn’t look much different, except that he seemed a bit thinner; the lines of his jaw had become sharper and more distinct.

He looked at her steadily, motionless. Tao Zhi only glanced at him once before lowering her eyes, her fingers tightly twisting together.

It was the first time that, upon seeing him, she found herself suddenly struck dumb—like she had lost the ability to speak, unable to say even one teasing or playful word.

After a brief moment, Jiang Qihuai stepped slightly aside, his voice low and calm. “Come in.”

Tao Zhi walked inside.

Ji Fan had told her roughly about Grandpa Jiang’s condition. Tao Xiuping had originally planned to cover all hospitalization and treatment costs—it was a considerable sum—but Jiang Qihuai refused. In the end, he paid for everything himself.

Fortunately, hospital rooms weren’t in short supply at the time. Jiang Qihuai’s friend Jiang Heshen’s father happened to be the orthopedic director and arranged for a double room. The other patient had been discharged last week, so Grandpa Jiang was the only one left in the room.

The old man was sleeping. Apart from the cast on his arm, he didn’t seem to have other visible injuries. Tao Zhi let out a small breath of relief and asked softly, “How is Grandpa Jiang’s condition?”

“He’s fine,” Jiang Qihuai said, pouring the freshly boiled water into the thermos. “He even played cards with the old lady next door this morning, he’s probably just a little tired now.”

Tao Zhi sat down on the empty bed, her legs swinging slightly. She didn’t know what to say next.

Actually, she did know.

She just didn’t dare to ask.

At first, when she had been in the hospital and hadn’t seen Jiang Qihuai visit, she hadn’t thought much about it. But as time passed, she began to understand—perhaps a little too well—what he was thinking.

So she didn’t dare send him WeChat messages anymore.

So she didn’t dare look for him again.

But she didn’t want to regret it.

Are you afraid?

Do you regret it?

Do you feel guilty, so you want to leave me?

Are you… abandoning me?

She had a basketful of words she wanted to ask him. She wanted a clear answer. She wanted to know what he was thinking.

She wanted to tell him that it was all right—that she wasn’t really hurt, that she was now a little hero, that she was brave. That she was willing to stay by his side, and could face all the difficulties together with him.

Growing up was always meant to be like this.

Growing up means enduring countless hardships, being hurt again and again, achieving the impossible under the doubting eyes of others, struggling desperately to break free from every shackle and cocoon that binds you so tightly you can barely breathe—and then soaring toward the sky.

Tao Zhi gripped the white bedsheet, bit her lip, and finally forced herself to ask with difficulty, “Why didn’t you come to see me?”

Perhaps because someone was sleeping in the room, the girl’s voice was very soft, carrying a sadness she couldn’t quite hide.

Jiang Qihuai set the thermos down on the small table between the two beds, then turned around to look at her.

Her arms were stiff and tense, her fingertips pale from the pressure of her grip. Her eyelashes trembled low, her lips pressed tightly together.

The winter sunlight was both indifferent and tender. The hot water still bubbled faintly in the thermos, steam curling upward, while the only other sound in the ward was the quiet, even rhythm of breathing.

Jiang Qihuai didn’t speak. He simply looked at her in silence, focused and motionless, for a long time.

He could no longer tell when the feeling had begun.

Maybe it was when the girl, awkwardly clutching her arms full of new books and test papers, handed him a gingerbread man from the front and pressed it onto his desk, twisting left and right as she urged him to look at it.

Or maybe it was when he stood on the sports field, watching her stand at the flag-raising platform, bathed in the morning sunlight, boldly and arrogantly declaring that “the messengers of justice are everywhere”—so childish and yet so proud.

At that moment, Jiang Qihuai realized that this was someone entirely different from him.

A different path of growth, a different fate, a different temperament, a different world.

She did the things he would never do, said the words he would never say, thought the thoughts he didn’t dare to think—and she always kept moving forward.

That vast, almost unbearable difference between them drew him in like a moth to flame. He wanted to understand, to see more.

Wanting to stay away, yet unable to stop inching closer, little by little.

Until, struggling, he finally reached the edge of the burning light—and only then did he truly realize that, in this world, he had always longed to possess such warmth.

Jiang Qihuai’s lowered fingers twitched slightly, then he slowly raised his hand and placed it on the back of her neck.

His thumb gently brushed the spot behind her ear—there was a wound there, still slowly healing.

He barely touched it before pulling his hand away.

His warm palm rested against her nape as he called her name softly. “Zhizhi.”

Tao Zhi lifted her head.

A shadow fell over her as Jiang Qihuai bent down, his neck lowering, and his lips pressed against her soft ones.

Cold. Delicate. Cautious, yet gentle.

Tao Zhi’s eyes widened.

His breath and his scent surrounded her, flooding her senses. Within the blankness that followed, his lips still pressed against hers, his voice low and hoarse—like sand ground fine by a rushing river, sinking slowly into the riverbed:

“Don’t come again.”

She heard him say it.