The hospital had a way of swallowing sound, of stretching minutes until they thinned into something fragile. By the time Lin Qing Yun followed the nurse down the pale corridor, she no longer felt the rain on her shoulders, nor the ache in her legs from running. Her body moved as though on rails, steady, purposeful, refusing to betray the storm that had begun inside her.
The nurse slowed near a heavy door. His voice was quiet, careful, as though the walls themselves might be listening.
"Please, miss. The paperwork first."
Qing Yun opened her bag with unhurried fingers, withdrew the folded forms that had already been placed in her hand by another clerk minutes before. Paper touched paper, exchanged, stamped, slid across a counter. She nodded once, thanked him.
"This way," the nurse said, gesturing.
The room was colder than the corridor. The air held a faint metallic tang, antiseptic layered over something older, something permanent. A row of stretchers lined the wall, each covered by a white sheet. The nurse guided her to one in the corner.
He folded the cloth back.
Si Yao lay beneath.
Her school uniform was still neat, the skirt pressed against her knees, though her shoes had been removed. A faint trace of dried blood marked the back of her head, dark against her hair. Her eyes were not fully closed; lashes cast half-moons against her pale skin. The face that had been so full of motion, chatter, and stubborn brightness now looked as though someone had pressed pause, trapping her between a word and a breath.
Qing Yun's own breath did not falter. Her eyes traced every line of that familiar face—the curve of her cheek, the slope of her brow, the lips that had once called her "Jiejie" a hundred times a day. She allowed herself only one long look, a steady gaze that tried to memorize, tried to carve the moment into her bones.
The nurse shifted. His voice was gentle.
"It's better not to look too long."
And then the cloth was drawn again, white swallowing color, silence swallowing sound.
---
Outside, the air was warmer but no easier to breathe. A clerk handed her another form, explained with professional tone about retrieval, processing, waiting. Qing Yun listened, nodded, signed where required. Her hand moved with precision, as though this were any other responsibility to fulfill.
When the neighbors found her in the hallway, their faces streaked with tears, it was she who steadied them.
"Aiyo, Qing Yun…" the aunty cried, reaching for her hand. "How could this happen? Your poor sister, such a bright child—"
Qing Yun squeezed her fingers gently.
"Thank you for being here," she said softly. "Please don't cry too much. She wouldn't want that."
The words came calm, even. She dabbed at the aunty's cheeks with a tissue, wiped another neighbor's trembling hands.
An older uncle, his voice shaking, tried to tell her the story.
"I heard a crash," he said. "Ran to the window and—she was already lying there, below. That man upstairs, he tried to run, but everyone came, blocked him. Someone called the police. Others carried her into a car, rushed here, but—" His voice cracked. "But we were too late."
Qing Yun bowed her head slightly, her tone steady.
"You did all you could. I'm grateful to each of you. Thank you for not leaving her alone."
The uncle shook his head, muttering apologies again and again, but her gratitude only deepened his sorrow.
---
Two uniformed officers arrived not long after, their presence a solid weight in the corridor. They spoke in clipped voices, asked for details, for names.
"Miss Lin, do you know the man who caused this?"
Her eyes lifted to meet theirs.
"Yes." The word was neither loud nor faint, simply placed.
She answered every question they asked. The neighbors added their accounts—how they saw him, how they caught him, how the police had taken him away.
The officers scribbled notes, exchanged glances, and left as quietly as they had come.
---
Night deepened outside the hospital. The corridors thinned of people; the vending machines hummed louder in the absence of voices. Qing Yun sat on a hard bench, her bag beside her, her hands folded in her lap.
Her phone vibrated against her palm. The screen lit with missed calls—dozens, all the same name: Gu Ze Yan.
She stared at it for a moment, then pressed call.
He answered at the first ring. His voice was sharp with worry, nearly breaking.
"Where are you? The bookstore manager said you suddenly left, in the rain—you left all your things. I've been calling and calling. Tell me—where are you?"
For a moment, she could not speak. Her throat felt as though lined with glass. She drew in one slow breath, then another.
When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, but each word cost her more than the last.
"Si Yao…" she said.
A pause. She pressed her nails into her palm to keep steady.
"She's in the hospital."
Another breath, sharper this time, breaking against the silence.
"She's gone."