In the hospital room, the alarming sounds and chaotic footsteps finally subsided, leaving only the rhythmic and faint beeping of the life monitor, like a heart that has finally stabilized after utter exhaustion.
Grandma Ji was forcibly pulled back from the brink of death and now lay in a deep slumber. Her face was pale to the point of being almost translucent, and each breath seemed tremendously laborious.
Ji Li sat rigidly in the chair beside the hospital bed, like a clay statue drained of its soul.
His hand clutched tightly onto his grandmother's thin, cold fingers, as if they were the only vine connecting him to the edge of the cliff.
Yan Yueqing's cold, angry words—"One can lack everything, but not a conscience!"—still buzzed in his mind, intertwining with the fragile flame of life in front of him, forming an immense, nearly crushing sense of tearing.
After an unknown length of time, Grandma Ji's eyelids fluttered slightly before slowly opening.
