he hospital was quieter that Thursday morning. The rain from previous days had given way to a dull sky, wrapped in a white light that was neither quite sun nor shadow — just a pause.
Wen Zhaonan was already walking without support, though he still used crutches as a precaution. The swelling in his ankle had gone down, the cut on his forehead was healing, and the medication had been reduced. In room 312, only the details remained — the dried flowers in the vase, the water jug on the tray, the blanket folded with precision.
Yuyan still accompanied him during his routine care. She always entered the same way: light coat, soft steps, quiet voice. She was precise in her gestures, gentle in her words, but... distant. As if her hands still touched, but her heart stayed one step behind.
Wen observed her more than he spoke. And in the silences between a temperature check and a dressing change, he noticed how she moved around other patients: attentive, respectful, but never intrusive. Like someone who had learned to listen — but not to be listened to.
That Thursday morning, she didn't show up.
It was Xiaoqing who entered the room, with her lighter energy and the habit of always carrying two ginger candies in her pocket.
— Day off for our tea blossom — she said while checking his vitals.
— You'll have to put up with me today.
Wen smiled faintly. Lowered his eyes to the article he was pretending to read. But the page had been open for over ten minutes. And his eyes... kept looking toward the door.
Xiaoqing noticed. Pretended not to. Only later, while arranging the vials on the tray, she commented, as if talking about the weather:
— She needed rest. The hospital demands a lot... especially from those who carry so much and don't let it show.
Wen, still motionless, asked without thinking:
— She carries?
Xiaoqing sat in the chair beside the bed, crossed her legs, and adjusted her badge absentmindedly. There was something in her tone now that set aside the usual levity. It was almost tenderness.
— Yuyan is the kind of person everyone thinks is fine. Because she's calm, dedicated, smiles just the right way. But if you really look… — she paused — …you can see how much she hides.
Wen listened. As he always did. But now... something inside him moved more slowly.
— She was raised by her mother and grandmother — Xiaoqing continued.
— Her father died when she was little. Her mother carried the world alone. And her grandmother… was the one who taught her how to make chrysanthemum tea, to sew silence, to embroider feelings between the lines.
She looked at the room's window, where the sky remained gray, then looked back at him:
— Her grandmother died when she was in college. And even so, Yuyan never stopped caring for everyone. She spent nights writing to let it out, but never asked for help. Studied on a scholarship, worked part-time, still cared for her mother at home. She... doesn't know what it means to be cared for.
She paused. Her voice now softer, closer.
— She fell in love once. With a med student. Kind. Attentive. One of those who know exactly what to say. He made her believe — for a while — that she could be chosen. But then she overheard him telling a friend she was just a distraction. That nurses were easy to manipulate. Pretty, poor, and innocent — his words.
There was a brief silence. One of those that say more than any sentence.
— After that, she closed off completely. Avoided anything that looked too much like affection. Built that functional delicacy — almost impenetrable. She does everything perfectly... but doesn't let anyone in.
A longer pause. The air felt denser.
— The other day, she told me something I haven't forgotten. That writing is like planting a flower in the dark. And that maybe no one will ever see it. But she writes anyway.
Wen felt something expand in his chest. Slowly. Like someone recognizing a phrase they'd already heard somewhere else.
— We get so used to her calm, helpful way... — Xiaoqing continued.
— That we forget to ask if she needs comfort too.
And finally, she said:
— She's good at listening. But almost no one knows what she doesn't say.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was like the sound of a bell that keeps vibrating in the air even after it has stopped.
Wen kept staring at the sheet Yuyan used to straighten. At the water jug she always refilled before leaving. At the cup where she would leave chrysanthemum tea, never asking if he wanted it — just because she thought that kind of care needed to be there.
Xiaoqing stood up.
— I'll let you rest. She should be back tomorrow.
— Oh, what does she like to do the most? Writing. But no one knows. She posts texts on a platform under a pseudonym: "Silent Bloom." It's how she finds space to exist. Alone. Anonymous. Without needing to explain herself.
Wen nodded. But his eyes didn't follow. They remained fixed on the perfectly folded blanket.
When the door closed, he remained still for a few minutes. Then, he reached for the notebook where he jotted down scattered phrases.
He wrote:
"She never asked for gratitude. But maybe she deserves to be remembered out loud."
That night, Wen Zhaonan slept — and dreamed.
In the dream, the world was different. There were no urgencies, no diagnoses, no cold hospital corridors or the invisible pressure of time. It was a place between autumn and spring, where the sky was too clear to be sky and the leaves seemed to float in the air without any rush to fall. He walked among old bridges, blooming trees, and alleys scented with freshly brewed tea. The city's sounds were distant, like background noise that didn't need to be noticed. And beside him, someone walked. He didn't see her face, didn't hear her voice. But he felt her. The presence was serene, warm — like the breeze of a morning where everything, at last, is at peace. They walked together without hurry, like those who have known each other for a long time, showing each other quiet places, sharing silence like those who share a secret.
They stopped in front of an old bookstore. The foggy window revealed stacked books and a kettle steaming in the back. She — whoever she was — extended her hand, as if to say, "let's go in." He nodded. And for a moment, he knew: this was what he missed the most. Not love in its loudest form, but the shared everyday. The gentle gesture. The tea shared. The gaze that understands even without words.
He woke up in the middle of the night.
The ceiling still dark. The room immersed in silence.
But the name came to his mind with the clarity of lightning crossing the sky.
Lin Yuyan.
He sat up slowly. Reached for his phone.
There was a notification.
Silent Bloom had posted a new text.
He already knew.
He had known since Xiaoqing let it slip.
Since her words began to sound like something he had already heard — even before reading them.
But reading that new chapter — so recent, so silently intimate — was like confirming it all over again.
The nurse with the listening eyes... was also the writer who embroidered the world in between the lines.
He thought about writing something. The words came. But stopped at the edge of his fingers.
Instead, he clicked the heart.
"You liked this chapter."
The gesture was small. But inside it, there was everything: recognition, gratitude, and a kind of care he no longer knew how to express.
Then, he stayed there for a few seconds, staring at the dark screen.
He wanted to send a message.
But glanced at the time.
03:47.
He closed his eyes.
And simply wished, from the depths of his heart, that he could return to the dream.
Not to escape the world.
But because, for the first time, the dream… already had a name.