Always Home

Huan'er didn't follow them back—her task was to ask for leave on their behalf and fetch their schoolbags.

Her mind was restless throughout the entire evening self-study session. Though she didn’t know the exact extent of Jing Qichi’s injury, she couldn’t help worrying whether this accident would affect his upcoming league selection. During the break, she called Song Cong, but his phone was off. She then dialed her mother, only to remember after one ring that Qian Yisheng had specifically mentioned before leaving in the morning that she had a big case tonight and would return late. Huan'er quickly hung up. Lao Xu personally supervised the second self-study period, so she didn’t dare act up. An hour passed with her dawdling over just one math problem.

Near the end of class, she received a text from an unfamiliar number:

Huan'er, my phone died. Don’t bike back alone—take the bus. We’ll talk when you get here.

It was from Song Cong.

She typed out a reply but then guessed he had probably borrowed someone’s phone at the hospital to send this message. Going back and forth would only trouble the other person, so she gave up.

The moment school ended, Huan'er was the first to rush out of the classroom. She hailed a taxi at the gate and headed straight for the hospital. After searching the emergency room to no avail, she asked a nurse she knew and learned they had been transferred to the inpatient ward. Her heart tightened—if it weren’t serious, they would’ve just kept him overnight for observation at most. Besides, given their status, unless it was a major surgery, their parents would’ve complained about occupying public resources. Jing Qichi must really be in trouble.

She found Song Cong outside the inpatient ward hallway. Over the past few hours, her heart had felt like a stone tied to it and thrown into the sea—growing heavier and more helpless by the minute. If the outcome had been optimistic, Song Cong should’ve been by Jing Qichi’s side right now.

“Where is he? How is he?” Huan'er asked urgently.

Song Cong shook his head slowly, then pointed to his own knee and said quietly, “Torn anterior cruciate ligament, meniscus injury.”

Huan'er didn’t fully understand, but Song Cong’s solemn expression and his next words made it clear. “In the future… we don’t know if he’ll be able to play soccer again.”

Jing Qichi’s cherished dream of a professional career had come to an abrupt halt—just as he was closest to realizing it.

Huan'er tried to charge into the ward but was pulled back. Song Cong told her, “His parents are inside. Wait a bit.”

She stood beside her friend, leaning her head slightly against the wall, her gaze fixed on the sharp, unyielding corner line. Her mother often said not to underestimate any organ in the body—each had formidable resilience and vitality. Every breath, every movement, their seamless cooperation day and night was what gave the human body its purpose as a vessel. Huan'er had always dismissed this idea. To doctors, weren’t people just a collection of organs? What did they know of the emotions and soul beyond the physical shell?

But now, she suddenly felt her mother’s words carried profound philosophical weight—just one small part of the body failing could render all one’s loves, dreams, and pursuits unsolvable, forcing life onto another path, one with no choice but to walk.

This was the reality Jing Qichi faced.

Huan'er asked, “What’s next? Surgery?”

Song Cong nodded. “My dad said Qi Chi’s physical condition and age make surgery the better option. Besides, he’d never agree to conservative treatment.”

He wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“Will he be able to play after?”

Song Cong sighed. “The recovery period will take at least half a year. It depends on how well he heals.”

In the hallway, patients hobbled by on crutches. Occasionally, a doctor would pass, and Song Cong would stand to greet them—he knew most of his father’s colleagues. The rest of the time, the two of them sat silently against the wall, lost in their own thoughts.Comfort was their shared challenge at this moment.

After a quarter of an hour, Jing's parents came out and closed the door tightly. "He's asleep, surgery tomorrow. You two don’t need to wait, go home."

Huan'er really wanted to go in and see him, but she was afraid of affecting the patient's mood before the operation the next day, so she kept silent, her head lowered.

"Alright," Jing's Mother, seeing her downcast, tried to console her instead. "We've explained the situation and the pros and cons clearly. You two shouldn’t worry too much. Right now, we have to believe in him."

She sounded so much like a medical professional carefully counseling a patient's family. Yet Huan'er clearly saw the fleeting frown on her face—the worry and concern of an ordinary mother that couldn’t be hidden.

Even the strongest have their vulnerabilities.

Jing's Father put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and gave her an encouraging squeeze.

The four of them walked out of the hospital in silence. When they reached the Family Compound and were about to part ways, Jing's Father spoke in a pleading tone, "Qi Chi getting injured like this—he won’t say it, but he must be struggling to accept it mentally. That kid won’t tell us anything to avoid worrying us. You two, please help Uncle and Aunt by talking to him, supporting him."

Huan'er and Song Cong agreed before heading to their respective homes.

Spring had arrived—this cruel, hope-shattering spring.

The next morning, Chen Ma was full of energy and made breakfast. When Huan'er asked what time she had returned, Dr. Qian snorted, "Past eleven. I thought you were still studying, but you were out cold."

Huan'er bared her teeth in a friendly grin and buried herself in her meal.

"I only found out about Qi Chi’s injury after my surgery. Uncle Song said the situation is 'so-so.'"

Her mother had a personal habit of categorizing patient conditions into four levels—from best to worst: "pretty good," "not bad," "so-so," and "not optimistic." At first glance, the distinctions seemed minor, even overlapping. But in reality, even if a vegetative patient woke up with a medical miracle, she’d only say "pretty good." If someone was hanging by a thread, their blood pressure dropping bit by bit, she’d still just call it "not optimistic."

Dr. Qian rarely showed extreme emotions, as if it were her nature.

Hearing this rating, Huan'er grew anxious. "How is it just 'so-so'?"

"It’s not terribly serious. For an ordinary person, they’d just recover slowly." Chen Ma looked at her. "Yesterday, Uncle Song mentioned Qi Chi was even considering repeating a year. Forget whether he can return to his previous condition after healing from this fracture—there’s also an age limit for that youth team. It’d be best if you could dissuade him. It’d be a burden, physically and mentally."

Huan'er gave a soft "Mm."

"Surgery is just the first step. The recovery period is the real challenge." Chen Ma reminded her daughter, "As his friend, you need to help Qi Chi more. Don’t be careless with your words like usual, understand?"

"Got it," Huan'er nodded.

Song Cong was waiting at the entrance of the Family Compound as usual. Huan'er greeted him, and the two started walking slowly. Naturally, they talked about the patient who would be undergoing surgery that day. Huan'er told him about Jing Qichi’s thoughts of repeating a year. "I get it," Song Cong replied calmly. "But gambling like this is too risky."

They both knew he was unwilling to give up. They just weren’t sure, as friends, whether they should encourage his persistence or persuade him to let go.

Huan'er felt the spring breeze against her face and sighed silently. "It’s such nice weather."

"Yeah," Song Cong looked ahead. "The other day, my mom said we should all go for a spring outing when we’re free on a weekend. The peach blossoms by South Lake are blooming. We’ll see once Qi Chi’s condition improves."

The blossoms last at most two months—nature waits for no one.

Huan'er said nothing.Song Cong could tell what was on her mind and smiled patiently. "Alright, if not this year then next. There's no rush. Besides, my mom just got itchy feet seeing everyone else go. She loves taking those typical tourist photos."

Huan'er laughed at this. "Did Auntie already prepare her floral scarves?"

"Don't even mention it—she bought three," Song Cong grinned. "Your mom, Aunt Lin—none of the sisters could escape matching sets."

Green plums like beans, willows like silk threads,

Long days with butterflies in flight.

Thinking carefully, spring still held many things to look forward to.

During the day, several boys in class came asking about the situation. Song Cong answered mechanically like an official spokesperson, "Needs surgery, recovery time depends." Liao Xinyan pulled Huan'er aside to probe for every detail—Was it major surgery? Would he need hospitalization? How long for recovery? Could she visit? Huan'er relayed everything she knew before finally telling her to wait for now. No one really knew Jing Qichi's current condition, but based on her understanding of him, he hadn't yet come to terms with it himself. Right now, he'd probably prefer to be alone.

Accepting a sudden change takes time, and truly moving past it can only be done by oneself.

As soon as the evening self-study bell rang, Song Cong and Huan'er rushed out of the classroom one after another, heading straight for the bike shed. They barely exchanged a word along the way, pedaling their bicycles as fast as they could. Even though they'd already received news that the surgery went smoothly, doctors could only control the physical inflammation—they were more worried about his mental state.

He'd been moved to a hospital ward, lying flat with cotton gauze wrapped from his ankle all the way up to his thigh. Huan'er counted six tubes inserted into his body in total. Seeing them arrive, Jing Qichi raised his right hand and managed a somewhat feeble smile. Jing's Mother said the anesthesia had worn off, and he wasn't feeling great at the moment.

"Does it hurt?" Huan'er asked him.

"My butt hurts," the boy quipped, as cheeky as ever.

A middle-aged male doctor with a square face and glasses entered the ward. Song Cong stood up to greet him. "Uncle Zhou."

Jing's Mother introduced him, "Zhou, you haven't met Huan'er before, have you? Li Na's daughter."

"Hey, she looks just like her mom," Dr. Zhou smiled at Huan'er before turning back to Jing's Mother. "Seeing these three reminds me of when Zhou You was in high school—with Lao Liu's boy Yun Chuan and that girl Shanshan from pediatrics back then, Xiuxian's daughter. They were always stuck together like peas in a pod. In the blink of an eye, they're all grown up now."

Jing's Mother asked, "I heard Xiuxian was promoted to deputy director?"

"Ah, going private was a lateral move for her. Just the other day she was saying how relaxed it was, but she missed working. I told her it's like the grass is always greener—those inside are exhausted and want out, while those who leave start missing it."

"Shanshan's expenses in the U.S. must be high, and Xiuxian raising her alone can't be easy," Jing's Mother teased. "What about Zhou You and Shanshan? No developments? Grew up together and now both studying abroad—seems like a good match to me."

"I wish there were! But you know my kid—total introvert," Dr. Zhou waved his hands dismissively. "Being so far away just leaves me helpless. If they were nearby, his old man would be herding ducks to get them together."

"You should usually..."

Jing Qichi, hearing them chat more and more animatedly, quickly interrupted. "Uncle Zhou, Uncle Zhou, didn't you come to check on the patient? How long do I have to lie here like this?"

Unable to move much, he looked like a miserable marionette, his expression drawing laughter from everyone.

Dr. Zhou checked his watch. "Another three hours. Keep your head still. Where's your dad?""Went to buy food." Jing's mother answered for her son, glancing at him. "Now you know what it feels like to go hungry."

"A young man like him going a whole day without eating must be starving." Dr. Zhou tucked his hands into the pockets of his white coat. "His spirits are good, just one more day of rest should do it. Take it slow when you go back—no rushing things."

"Yeah." Jing Qichi's expression darkened.

That evening, no one mentioned soccer. Huan'er and Song Cong kept the conversation light, talking about what classes they had that day, the homework assigned, and which classmates had argued over cleaning duty. Jing Qichi drank some porridge and, with his father's help, slowly made his way to the bathroom. Even after they left, he still didn't sleep.

He must have a lot on his mind, Huan'er thought, even though he seemed perfectly fine.