The chill of the mountain air seemed to seep through the very walls of the midwife's cottage, curling around Chen Ying and Yang Muchen like a shroud as they waited on the sagging porch.
Inside the small structure, the low, professional murmur of Assistant Han's voice had ceased minutes ago, replaced by a silence that felt heavy—as if the house itself were holding its breath.
"He's been in there too long," Chen Ying whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant, sluggish sound of the creek.
Her hand instinctively gripped the splintered railing of the porch, and her shoulder throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache. The painkillers were beginning to wear thin, and in their place was a growing, cold unease that settled in the pit of her stomach.
