The following morning, the rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet, and the air smelled fresh, almost like herbs after they had been dried in the sun. Huo Yi woke early, his heart still full of excitement from the day before. He washed quickly, dressed in his uniform, and glanced at his phone on the desk. A new message notification blinked at him. For a moment, his pulse raced.
Could it be Liang Chen?
But when he opened it, disappointment swept over him. It was only a message in the class group chat about their schedule. He set the phone down with a sigh, telling himself not to expect too much. Liang Chen had been distant lately, and the silence between them was growing heavier each day.
Still, today was important. Today was another step on his journey to becoming a true doctor of Traditional Chinese Medicine.
When he reached the classroom, he noticed the atmosphere was different. The students spoke in softer voices, their laughter subdued. Dr. Zhang stood at the front, holding a stack of old scrolls. His eyes, usually calm and kind, looked serious.
"Today," he began, "we will not speak of herbs or acupuncture. Today, we will speak of inheritance."
The word hung in the air like a bell.
"Inheritance," Dr. Zhang repeated slowly. "Not the inheritance of money or property, but of knowledge. What we study here has survived thousands of years. Wars, famine, dynasties rising and falling—yet these teachings lived on. But now, in this modern age, it faces its greatest challenge. If you do not carry it forward, who will?"
Huo Yi felt the weight of those words settle on his chest. He remembered his grandmother, who had always brewed special teas when he was sick. She used to say, "Medicine is not just for the body. It is for the heart." Her wrinkled hands had worked with quiet confidence, and now he understood why. She had been part of that great chain of inheritance Dr. Zhang spoke of.
After the lecture, the students were free until lunch. Huo Yi wandered into the courtyard outside the building. The rain had turned into a fine mist, and droplets still clung to the wide leaves of the old gingko trees. He sat beneath one, his notebook resting on his lap.
He tried to focus on rewriting his notes from yesterday, but his mind kept drifting. He thought of Liang Chen—how much he wanted to share his excitement about everything he was learning. He wanted to tell him about the pulse diagnosis, the herbs, the way Dr. Chen spoke about balancing yin and yang as if it were poetry. But would Liang Chen even care? Would he laugh at him, call it old-fashioned, useless in a modern world?
The thought stung.
"You're still writing?"
The voice pulled him back to reality. He looked up and saw Mei Lin, one of his classmates, smiling down at him. Her hair was damp from the mist, and she held a stack of notes under her arm.
"Yes," Huo Yi replied, closing the notebook quickly. "I don't want to forget anything."
Mei Lin chuckled softly. "You work too hard. Remember, if you exhaust yourself, you won't have the strength to heal others."
Her words were light, but they struck something inside him. She was right. He carried so much inside—his love for TCM, his worry about Liang Chen, his fear of failing—that sometimes it felt like too much. He nodded, murmured a thanks, and watched her walk away.
In the afternoon, the students gathered again, this time in Dr. Chen's clinic. The room smelled strongly of herbs—ginseng, licorice root, and dried ginger mingled in the air.
"Today," Dr. Chen announced, "you will practice pulse diagnosis."
The students exchanged nervous glances. It was one of the most delicate skills in TCM, requiring patience, focus, and intuition.
Huo Yi sat across from a classmate and gently placed his fingers on the wrist. At first, all he felt was the faint beat of the heart. But as he closed his eyes and concentrated, he began to notice tiny differences in rhythm and strength. It was like listening to a hidden song beneath the surface.
Dr. Chen walked by and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Good. Remember, the pulse is not just numbers. It tells you the story of the whole person—their organs, their emotions, even their spirit."
For the first time in weeks, Huo Yi felt peace. In that moment, his worries about Liang Chen faded into the background. All that mattered was the quiet rhythm of life beneath his fingertips.
When the session ended, he realized he was smiling. He hadn't felt so calm in a long time.
That evening, back in his dorm room, he sat at his desk with the desk lamp casting a warm glow over his books. He picked up his phone again. His thumb hovered over Liang Chen's name in his contacts. Slowly, he typed a message:
"Today, I touched the pulse of life itself. It felt like holding someone's soul in my hand. I wish you could understand how powerful it was."
He stared at the words, his heart beating fast. Should he send it? Would Liang Chen reply?
His finger trembled over the send button. Then, with a sharp breath, he pressed save instead and closed the draft. He wasn't ready. Not yet.
Pushing the phone aside, he turned to his books. The pages on acupuncture points and meridians seemed to glow in the lamplight. He traced the lines with his finger, whispering the names under his breath as if reciting a prayer.
But just as he began to lose himself in study, his phone buzzed.
Startled, he grabbed it. A message had arrived.
His heart leaped when he saw the name.
It was from Liang Chen.
With trembling hands, he opened it.
The words on the screen made his breath catch.
"Huo Yi… we need to talk. Tomorrow. Don't be late."
The room seemed to spin. His heart pounded louder than ever. What did Liang Chen mean? Was it good news? Bad news?
He stared at the message, frozen, as a thousand questions raced through his mind.
And for the first time, Huo Yi realized—tomorrow might change everything.