Zong Ying asked, "Why are you here?"
Xue Xuanqing countered defiantly, "Why can't I be here?"
Zong Ying noticed the case in her hand and guessed she was here on official business. Having likely spotted Zong Ying's name in the visitor log—typical of Xue Xuanqing's methods—it was no surprise she'd staked out the hospital room door to ambush her.
Xue Xuanqing's visit could only mean three things:
First, why she had taken leave; second, why that car had been left in the middle of the road; and lastly, probably to verify Sheng Qingrang's identity.
None of which Zong Ying was inclined to volunteer, so she chose to wait silently for the questions.
Yet Xue Xuanqing pointedly avoided these topics. Tipping her chin toward the room, she fixed Zong Ying with a stare. "How's his recovery?"
Zong Ying half-turned. "Mind if I close the door first?"
Xue Xuanqing stepped aside, only to plant her foot firmly against the doorframe the moment it shut, boxing Zong Ying into the narrow space. "Alright, talk."
Zong Ying tolerated her childish antics with resignation and met her gaze. "Out of critical condition. Needs rest. Possible memory loss."
"So nothing useful to ask, right?" Xue Xuanqing sounded unsurprised. "The team sent someone yesterday—questioned him forever, same answer: 'Don't know.' Whether he's really lost his memory or not, digging here won't help much. We're already getting leads on where that bag of drugs came from."
Bound by confidentiality and conflict rules, Xue Xuanqing couldn't elaborate. But her last remark triggered Zong Ying's memory of a detail from days ago.
On her last shift before leave, she, Xue Xuanqing, and Xiao Zheng had dined at a pub. Over drinks, Xiao Zheng had mentioned, "Another set of prints on the drug bag," suspecting someone from "New Hope Pharma's upper echelons."
Who would Xing Xueyi have gotten the drugs from? Could it really be someone high up at New Hope? If so—who?
Despite holding shares, Zong Ying had never involved herself in New Hope's internal affairs. Who held power, who had influence, what factions clashed—she knew little of it.
As Zong Ying strained to recall faces from the company, a faint movement came from inside the room.
Zong Yu, catching muffled voices outside, had lain still—until Xue Xuanqing's final words. His lashes fluttered, eyes opening blankly to the ceiling.
Then, familiar footsteps approached. He knew—his mother was back.
Zong Yu's mother's return cut short the conversation at the door.
Xue Xuanqing shot her a sidelong glance, withdrew her foot, and stepped aside, leaving Zong Ying to face her alone.
In her usual gentle tone, Zong Yu's mother said, "You came, Zong Ying. Come in and sit awhile... Zong Yu keeps asking for you, wants to talk." Her movements and speech were unhurried, though nights of vigil had drained her. Still, she mustered a smile for Zong Ying.
"I just saw him," Zong Ying replied. "He's tired—needs rest."
Nodding, Zong Yu's mother stepped inside but turned back. "Visit more often when you can," she urged, lifting her eyes.
Meeting her gaze, Zong Ying finally agreed. "Alright."
The door closed. Xue Xuanqing's phone rang.Ward 2013 was urging her to hurry over. She hung up the phone but wasn’t in a rush to leave, pointing at Zong Ying instead: "Wait for me outside the door for a bit. I need to have a proper talk with you about that car incident." She turned to leave but then looked back to add, "And about that antique coming in and out of your place—I’ll definitely get to the bottom of it."
The "antique" she referred to was undoubtedly Sheng Qingrang.
Zong Ying wasn’t particularly worried, though. After all, Sheng Qingrang was, in this era, a person who didn’t exist. Xue Xuanqing’s efforts would be in vain.
After Xue Xuanqing entered Ward 2013, Zong Ying turned and walked back. Before reaching the nurse’s station, she faintly overheard murmurs.
The gossip hadn’t stopped—two nurses were still talking about her.
They had likely dug up the news article titled "Forensic Pathologist Involved in Incident Suspected of Suspension; Previously Linked to Medical Accident," shifting their focus back to her.
One said, "Isn’t the one in 2015 her younger brother? The young master of Xinsi Pharma, remember?"
The other replied, "The one admitted after that traffic accident on the 23rd? Didn’t a relative die too?"
"An uncle. Said to be the director of Xinsi’s Pharmaceutical Research Institute. It caused quite a stir recently, and Xinsi has a new drug about to launch—they must’ve done a lot of PR to cover it up. Speaking of which, I just remembered something else..."
"What?"
"A piece of news about Xinsi from over a decade ago."
"How would you know about something from over ten years ago?"
"Nurse Liang mentioned it. She said before Xinsi established its Pharmaceutical Research Institute, they only had a research lab. The head back then was Yan Man—this Dr. Zong’s mother. That year, Xinsi was also about to release a new drug when Yan Man suddenly died. They said she had severe depression—probably suicide."
"What a shame."
"Apparently, Yan Man was close friends with Dr. Xu from Neurosurgery. That’s probably why Dr. Xu took such good care of her daughter later. But what’s the point? After that accident, this ‘star pupil’ couldn’t even step into an operating room anymore, had to switch to being a forensic pathologist, and now she’s causing all this trouble."
Zong Ying listened to the gossip but didn’t reveal herself immediately.
Leaning against the wall, her right hand, tucked in her pocket, trembled faintly without her realizing it. Only when she snapped back to attention and pulled it out to clench a fist did it finally settle.
Leaving the VIP ward area, Zong Ying went downstairs to find Sheng Qiushi.
Mornings in the hospital began with shift handovers and rounds. Groups of drowsy interns followed their supervisors through the wards—a routine Zong Ying had once been intimately familiar with.
Sheng Qiushi suddenly called out to her from behind, catching up quickly and pushing open the consultation room door for her before she could.
"Thanks," Zong Ying said.
"How did it go with Zong Yu?"
"He’s weak. Didn’t say much."
Sheng Qiushi gestured for her to sit on the sofa, poured her a glass of water, and took a seat opposite her.
He organized his thoughts before speaking carefully: "Yesterday’s tests showed his heart condition has worsened. It was already bad, and this car crash just made it worse. The outlook isn’t good... Aside from a heart transplant, there’s no other option."
Zong Ying picked up the cup to drink but was scalded by the overly hot water.
She silently set the paper cup back on the table as Sheng Qiushi continued, "His blood type is rare, making matching even harder. There are barely any comparable cases for reference."
Zong Ying asked, "Does the family already know?"Sheng Qiushi nodded. "I mentioned it yesterday, so you should already know."
The weather outside was splendid, but the news felt like a dark cloud looming overhead, matching the icy blast of the air conditioning inside—as if a downpour could start at any moment.
Though one must believe in miracles, reality remained bleak—finding a suitable heart donor in such a short time was nearly impossible.
With no cigarettes to smoke, Zong Ying picked up an old magazine from the coffee table to ease her anxiety—urology, a subject she hadn’t touched since leaving the hospital.
Sheng Qiushi said, "That’s the gist of it. The child is quite pitiful. Try to visit when you can."
His words carried an unspoken implication— see them while you still can . Zong Ying understood but didn’t respond. Suddenly, a nurse knocked and peeked in. "Dr. Sheng, consultation in 403, now."
Sheng Qiushi was busy, so Zong Ying didn’t linger.
She left the consultation room and wandered aimlessly until, as if drawn by some unseen force, she stopped outside an operating theater.
The glowing red light signaled an ongoing surgery. Outside, anxious family members waited; inside was a space Zong Ying no longer had the right to enter.
Lost in thought for a moment, her phone suddenly buzzed in her pocket.
She snapped back to reality and pulled it out. On the screen was her grandmother’s long-unseen smiling face, with a video call request flashing in the top left corner.
Zong Ying answered. The image on the other end flickered—likely due to poor signal—and the audio cut in and out.
As her grandmother spoke, her uncle’s face appeared beside hers. "Zong Ying, hold on. I’ll call you back on the phone," he said before hanging up.
When the call came through again, the sound was finally clear. Zong Ying lifted her head, sunlight streaming through the glass and bathing her face.
Her uncle’s voice came through. "Zong Ying, Grandma is returning to the country in a few days. She wants to reconnect with relatives back in Hangzhou, but she can’t find their contact details. She says there’s a leather-bound notebook in the apartment with some records—probably stored in your mother’s cabinet. Could you go look for it when you have time?"
The news of her grandmother’s return was sudden. Collecting herself, Zong Ying replied, "But that cabinet is locked. I don’t have the key."
Her uncle answered, "She said the key is hidden behind the grandfather clock. Go check."
Zong Ying hadn’t opened that cabinet in years, nor had the old clock been moved in just as long.
She ended the call. Since Xue Xuanqing still hadn’t come downstairs, she decided to return to the apartment.
Passing through the colorful corridor, she found the wide hallway empty—no reception desk, no Mr. Ye poking his head out to ask, "The milk’s here, want me to bring it up? Need me to call the elevator?"
Only the automatic sliding doors of the elevator, cold and mechanical.
Zong Ying stepped inside and swiftly ascended to the top floor.
Once inside, she went straight to the grandfather clock and carefully shifted it aside. Sure enough, she found an old key—though tarnished with age, it was her grandmother’s tacit permission after all these years.
The balcony door was slightly ajar, a warm breeze rustling the curtains, distorting the sunlight that pooled on the floor.
Key in hand, Zong Ying opened the cabinet door. A faint scent of dust greeted her. The shelves were lined with notebooks—most left behind by Yan Man.
She flipped through them one by one until she pulled out a leather-bound notebook.The cover was embossed with a year by hand, resembling a planner rather than the address book her grandmother had mentioned. She was about to return it to its place when she suddenly froze—the year was all too familiar to her.
Zong Ying’s expression darkened as she opened it with both hands, her eyes immediately filled with Yan Man’s handwriting.
Yan Man had been a woman of meticulous and concise habits, and the writing in the planner was no exception. Zong Ying flipped through the pages—August, September…
September 12th, September 13th, September 14th.
On September 14th, Yan Man had only written two things: "1. Confirm data; 2. Zong Ying’s birthday." But that day, she never came home.
Zong Ying clenched the notebook tightly, recalling that bleak birthday and the lonely night that followed.
Steeling herself, she was about to close the notebook when she noticed the bookmark ribbon pressed against the next page, prompting her to turn one more.
September 15th—Yan Man had scheduled three tasks, all work-related.
How could someone who intended to take her own life on September 14th possibly plan work for the next day?
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