Song Ma regained consciousness two weeks later. The good news was she was out of danger, with her intracranial pressure largely stabilized; the bad news was that her nervous system had been damaged, resulting in the loss of motor function in her right leg.
Monoplegia—she could no longer stand.
This was the diagnosis given by the most elite medical team at the Third Hospital. When one of their own was involved, they had done everything possible.
Song Cong cried all night after hearing the news. From dusk till dawn, he wept in the empty house until he was numb. He told himself this was a good outcome—at least his mother’s mind was clear, even if she would face mobility challenges in the future. Yet he couldn’t stop crying. This was the woman who walked faster than most, the one the ER doctors joked had "wind beneath her feet." More importantly, she had only just passed the first half of her life.
A single shove, a single collision—the nervous system was just that fragile and sensitive.
When he had no tears left to shed, Song Cong made a decision.
At daybreak, his father returned home. Usually, his mother handled everything—daily meals, major purchases, holiday gifts for relatives, even how much to contribute to wedding gifts for colleagues’ children. Efficient and decisive, she was the backbone of the family, which had earned Lao Song from the orthopedics department a reputation as the "carefree one" in the hospital. Over the past two weeks, his father had visibly withered. Without his pillar, the sudden crisis had nearly crushed this middle-aged man who had only ever poured his energy into his profession.
"How’s Mom?"
Song Cong knew his father had gone to the hospital last night to explain the situation to his mother. Chinese parents often shared a common flaw—they were too ashamed to show vulnerability or express grief in front of their children. So he hadn’t gone along. He wanted his mother to let loose—to curse, to cry, to vent the anger and resentment buried in her heart without restraint.
Anyone would react that way. He didn’t want her to be the exception who endured in silence.
"She’s still struggling to accept it..." Song Ba shook his head. "She’s asleep with a tranquilizer. You can go see her later."
"Dad." Song Cong looked at his father. "I want to transfer to Experimental High."
The decision required almost no deliberation—it was the only thing he, still a minor, could do right now. No explanation was needed. Experimental High was right across from the hospital, just steps from home.
Whether for physical care or emotional support, his mother needed her closest family by her side.
Song Ba’s eyes reddened instantly. "Son, you don’t have to do this."
"It really doesn’t matter to me," Song Cong said firmly. "I don’t want to do something I’ll regret."
"But your mom... your mom will feel even worse."
Song Cong blinked his dry eyes. "I can still get into the same schools I was aiming for. Dad, trust me."
His father finally agreed and told him two things—if they ended up going to court, there might be media coverage, so he should be prepared; and the hospital had decided to transfer his mother to a logistics role, allowing her to return whenever she wanted, with Aunt Lin helping a great deal behind the scenes.
This was a conversation between adults. In this way, Song Ba acknowledged his son’s maturity.
Jing Qichi and Huan’er soon learned the news. As friends, all they could do was pat his shoulder and say, "I support you"—anything else would have been superfluous. The trio became a duo, and Song Cong left without fanfare. It wasn’t until the next monthly exam, when the top rank in their grade changed hands, that everyone realized in shock that the old champion was gone.
The topic of the top student’s transfer was quickly forgotten. Just as spring gives way to summer, life always brings new distractions.During the college entrance exam period, the school was requisitioned as an examination site. Taking advantage of the holiday, Huan'er went with her mother to visit Song Ma. On the way, Chen Ma mentioned that the case had entered the public prosecution stage, with the trial scheduled for next month. The charge of intentional injury was already confirmed; the only remaining question was the length of the sentence.
Huan'er asked, "Did they not come to apologize?"
"They did," Chen Ma replied in a dismissive tone. "Aunt Hao hasn’t returned to work yet. Somehow, they found out and went to your Uncle Song’s office, wailing and carrying on about how they had elderly parents and young children to support. Anyone who didn’t know the situation would think they were the victims."
"What happened then?"
"Your Uncle Song refused to settle and had security throw them out. Don’t let my senior’s usual meekness fool you—he stands firm on principles when it matters. Crying and making a scene? Why should they think an apology and some money would let them off the hook? Their impulsive actions ruined someone’s life. An apology is the bare minimum—it doesn’t mean they can escape legal consequences." Chen Ma grew angrier as she spoke. "Everyone has family. If they knew this would happen, why did they act so recklessly in the first place?"
"Right. You can’t be too kind in life."
"No, Huan'er," Chen Ma immediately corrected her. "You should be kind, but you can’t endlessly tolerate and yield. You must have a bottom line that can’t be crossed."
As mother and daughter reached the entrance of the Song family’s apartment building, Chen Ma put a finger to her lips in a "shush" gesture.
"I know," Huan'er said, slightly annoyed that her mother still treated her like a child. "I’m not stupid."
Song Ma seemed in decent spirits and had calmly accepted the accident, speaking lightly about the inconveniences in her life and her guilt toward her son. Song Cong busied himself washing fruit and pouring tea, his expression unchanged—but how could overnight maturity be visible on one’s face?
"This whole ordeal really scared my senior," Chen Ma said cheerfully. "The last time I saw him looking so haggard was back in our student days. There were few boys in our major, so when we practiced cupping, everyone—upperclassmen or underclassmen—was dragged in for sessions. You’d go through it at least eight or ten times in one night. My senior was older, so as the big brother, he had to set an example. He said he’d never forget being pinned down by a bunch of us for cupping, even ten years later."
Song Ma laughed, slapping the sofa in amusement. "Lao Song had that kind of experience?"
"Don’t rat me out to him, sister-in-law. If we’d had cameras back then, I’d have taken a photo and framed it for your living room."
Huan'er had long noticed her mother’s superpower: no matter how awkward the conversation or how gloomy the mood, a few words from her could lighten the atmosphere. She was someone who truly lived by the motto, "It’s no big deal."
While the adults chatted happily, Song Cong signaled for Huan'er to go to his room. She had thought that living in the same compound meant it didn’t matter whether they were classmates, but in reality, they hadn’t seen each other since he transferred schools. She knew Song Cong was busy, especially in the beginning—between Song Ma’s daily needs and rehabilitation, every little thing required someone by her side. She and Jing Qichi had even discussed whether to visit, but they ultimately decided to hold off. If Song Cong needed help, he would have sent a distress signal. Since he hadn’t, it meant he was just swamped with his routine.
"You’re still not attending evening self-study?"
Song Cong, using the privilege of a top student, had excused himself from evening classes, shuttling daily between school and home. No one could truly understand the hardship he endured.
"Not yet," the boy replied, hands in his pockets as he leaned against the window. "We’ll see."
Huan'er picked up the Experimental High School uniform lying on the bed, fiddled with it for a moment, then put it back. "Have you figured out medical school yet?" she asked.
There was still a year left—a whole year."I told them the truth," Song Cong gestured toward the door with his chin. "They're split into two factions."
"Uncle Song must be the supportive one, right?"
Song Cong shook his head at her. "My dad disagrees. It's my mom who supports me."
The one who stood firm was precisely the person who had been bloodied by that white coat.
Huan'er was surprised. "What did your mom say?"
"Just... someone has to do it, even if the outcome is uncertain," Song Cong replied, though it was unclear whether these were his mother's words or his own realization.
"Schrödinger's Medical School," Huan'er summarized.
"Exactly," Song Cong laughed.
Uncertainty is a labyrinth in the heart. We lack the ability to soar above and see the path clearly—our only option is to walk forward. Though this maze is cunning and ever-changing, it will never warn you that taking one step forward might raise an insurmountable wall behind you, leaving no retreat.
Returning to school again, the senior-year classrooms downstairs remained in exam formation—desks turned forward, rows perfectly aligned. After the fate-determining exam, the space seemed frozen in time, with only the digital clock on the wall marking the transition from end to new beginning.
Somehow, the day was unusually quiet. No sudden clamor rose after class, whispered conversations during self-study dwindled, and even the water dispenser at the back of the classroom stopped its noisy bubbling as if cooperating. Du Man had cut her long hair, and a few more workbooks piled up on her desk. She went through a pen refill a day. The dark-blue stains on her hands had deepened, like birthmarks emerging from her skin, impossible to erase.
During dinner, Liao Xinyan sought out Huan'er and whispered that the math teacher from the Honor Class would hold a private summer course at home, focusing on key exam topics. She asked if Huan'er and Jing Qichi wanted to join.
The school forbade teachers from running private classes, so this information was clearly confidential.
"Summer break is only two weeks this year. A focused review wouldn’t hurt," Liao Xinyan said, as if afraid of being overheard, writing the teacher’s name instead of speaking it aloud. "He’s really good—his predictions are spot-on."
Huan'er was tempted, but the moment she heard the fee, she dismissed the idea. A ten-day course cost several thousand yuan.
"That’s way too expensive!" she blurted out.
Liao Xinyan laughed at her. "Country bumpkin, that’s the going rate these days."
Huan'er knew it wasn’t mockery. The fact that Liao Xinyan shared this secret meant she trusted her. So she admitted, "I’m definitely not going. I’ll ask Jing Qichi tonight."
Jing Qichi’s first response was, "Are you going?"
"Do I look like I own a mine back home?"
"Then I’m not going either." He poked her back. "Don’t flatter yourself. My dad’s coming back, and I want to spend some time with him during the break."
It had been two months since Jing's Father was transferred. The new post was near the mountains, conditions were tough, and the trip home required a train transfer. He hadn’t returned since leaving.
"Hey, can you still not ride a bike?"
The mention of this irritated Huan'er. After Song Cong transferred, she became the "designated chauffeur," carrying a tall, sturdy young man over 1.8 meters on the back of her bike every day. When she learned Jing Qichi’s weight, she realized it was like hauling three sacks of rice—three sacks! That was enough to last a small household nearly a year. Wasn’t this like moving rations daily?
Frustrated but helpless, refusing would make her the ungrateful friend who abandoned him in need.
Jing Qichi smirked at her struggling shoulders. "You had plenty of strength when you hit me."
"Jing Qichi, ever heard the saying 'Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west'?""Don't threaten me. I can't be moved by poverty or swayed by power."
"You're just left with being poor and worthless."
"Speak properly, no need to insult."
The evening breeze lifted the school uniform, sweat beading and drying. The asphalt road, traffic lights, billboards—they all knew who had taken up residence in whose heart on such a summer night.
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