Qi Zhimu returned to the bamboo cottage, opened an encrypted safe, took out a specially made medicine, and swallowed a single pill.
Soon, his appearance reverted to that of a young man.
His body felt much better—no different from any youth—though it was only temporary…
"Meow~"
A soft, cottony cry rose at his feet, the ending drawn out to tug at one's attention.
A sleek, furry touch brushed his ankle. Qi Zhimu looked down.
An orange tabby sat by his leg, staring up at him.
Those normally lazy eyes seemed to hold a trace of worry.
"I'm fine."
He put the medicine back, bent down, picked the cat up, and rubbed its head.
"You need to lose weight, Little Orange."
"Meooow~~"
Little Orange answered as if promising next time, for sure.
"In another hundred days, I won't be able to take care of you like this anymore. Being too fat is bad for your health, understand?"
Whether the cat understood or not, it nuzzled affectionately into his palm.
Its fluffy paw rested on his wrist, oddly like a gesture of reluctance.
Qi Zhimu smiled, carried Little Orange to the windowsill, and sat.
He took down a zhongruan hanging nearby and gently plucked the strings with long fingers.
A warm, mellow tone flowed out, drifting into the late-autumn wind.
Outside the window, green bamboo swayed—still holding its color—while a few pale, withered leaves fell now and then.
Farther away, the plum grove on the mountainside had already begun to gather its quiet fragrance, preparing for winter bloom.
Little Orange lay on Qi Zhimu's lap. The wind by the window carried a chill; it gradually curled itself into a ball.
Within the lingering melody, its breathing steadied.
Sparse leaves in late bamboo bid farewell to green shadows;
Cold strings by an autumn window send a lonely sound.
The wind passed through the bamboo tips, scattering the last note—and pulling Qi Zhimu's thoughts with it.
Ruan Mei liked the ruan.
She had never taught Qi Zhimu on purpose, yet he learned through constant exposure, until he could play well.
Seeing that, she gave him a zhongruan.
She also liked delicate pastries—especially those infused with plum.
Again, she never taught him. He taught himself anyway, spending years until even his teacher could find no fault in what he made.
From then on, in the years before his graduation, he had been responsible for the daily meals.
Most of what Teacher taught revolved around life itself.
Looking back on those warm fragments of the past, Qi Zhimu couldn't help but feel the weight of it.
His life had been unfortunate.
And also, strangely, fortunate.
At six, he had collapsed amid a group of refugees in an apocalyptic war—and contracted a fatal virus.
The blurred face he saw as he closed his eyes was Ruan Mei.
The blurred face he saw when he opened them again was also Ruan Mei.
"Do you want to live?"
That was what she asked—her voice hollow, emotionless.
"…Yes…"
That was how he answered—simple, a single word made of raw survival.
And so, Qi Zhimu lived.
Ruan Mei made no promises. She spent years analyzing the virus, and eventually cured him—an experimental subject who survived.
At eleven, he became her student.
He learned quickly—learned much—and his days were full.
At eighteen, Teacher became angry for the first time—and the only time—punishing the Qi Zhimu who had made a mistake.
He couldn't remember the details anymore, only that it had something to do with breaking the rules.
"Meow~"
Little Orange suddenly jumped down.
Qi Zhimu returned from his memories and glanced at the sky, mild surprise flickering in his eyes.
He carefully hung the zhongruan back in place and went outside.
A girl in a deep violet dress was approaching the cottage, leading a middle-aged woman whose eyes were unfocused beneath a headscarf.
"Mr. Qi!"
Catching sight of his tall figure, the girl waved from afar—her expression complicated.
Hope, and unease, tangled together.
Qi Zhimu knew why they had come. When they reached him, he inclined his head with a gentle smile.
"Come with me."
The girl, practiced by now, guided her mother after him into the cottage and down a passage that revealed a hidden world.
No one looking from outside would ever guess that within an ordinary bamboo cottage lay a fully equipped medical room.
"Please lie down, Mrs. Durand."
The middle-aged woman met the pair of eyes that offered calm and kindness. Her confusion remained; she instinctively looked at the girl beside her.
"Mother, Mr. Qi is the doctor treating you. Don't worry—you'll remember soon."
"Oh… alright…" Mrs. Durand complied.
After a series of examinations, the diagnosis showed slight differences from previous visits.
Qi Zhimu fitted treatment equipment over Mrs. Durand's head, pressed a button, and sealed the medical pod.
"This session will last seventeen hours. Go wait outside."
"…It's three hours longer than last time. That…" Clarisse bit her lip, anxiety and worry flashing over her face.
"Don't worry." Qi Zhimu sighed softly. "You look like you haven't eaten. Have something first."
He patted her light-purple hair in a steadying gesture.
Clarisse Durand was a resident of a neighboring world.
She had searched for years to cure her mother's amnesia. After chasing rumors and half-truths across the stars, she finally found a secluded mountain recluse—Doctor Qi.
Her mother had been receiving treatment here for five years, and her condition had steadily worsened.
At first, they came once a year.
Now, it was less than every two months.
And each session took longer than the last.
Clarisse sat in the living room.
The pastries that were always delicious tasted like wax today.
Most of her thoughts were fixed on her mother's illness.
At this rate, the day would come when her mother would forget everything—everyone—and never remember again.
Seeing the girl chew without tasting, Qi Zhimu quietly poured her a cup of plum-blossom wine.
Not even two years old.
It wouldn't intoxicate an adult girl—much less the young Qi Zhimu of old.
The clear, pale-golden liquor released a fresh scent.
Just the smell was enough for Clarisse to unconsciously drink half the cup, a faint flush rising on her cheeks.
The clean, elegant plum aroma spread across her lips and teeth, easing a sliver of her sorrow.
"Thank you, Mr. Q—"
"Cough—cough—cough!"
Before her thanks could finish, Qi Zhimu suddenly coughed violently. He turned his back to her, covering his mouth as he forced the discomfort down.
"Mr. Qi! Are you alright?!" Clarisse's face snapped tight with concern.
A glance at the red in his palm—quickly hidden—Qi Zhimu shook his head, voice steady.
"…It's nothing. Winter's coming. I must have caught a chill last night."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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