Night Wanderer

Speaking drained her strength, blood rushed to her head, and her extremities grew numb from lack of oxygen. Zong Yu's mother swayed, feeling lightheaded and unsteady.

Aunt, hit by the paper ball and then confronted with Zong Yu's mother's words, felt utterly wronged. She glared and retorted angrily, "What did I do? Was I doing this for myself? Why are you taking it out on me?!"

Zong Yu's mother snapped back to reality and raised a hand to tidy the loose strands of hair by her ear. Her trembling, icy fingers fumbled several times before finally tucking all the stray hairs behind her ear.

She struggled to regain her composure, but her chest still heaved uncontrollably. Lowering her voice to mask her anger and anxiety, she said, "What I meant was... why did you have to disturb Zong Ying when she's sick?" By the end of the sentence, her expression had softened somewhat, and her tone returned to its usual calm demeanor.

Aunt, both furious and aggrieved, had divorced years ago, and her son had been granted to her ex-husband, who later moved abroad and remarried. For over twenty years, contact had been sparse, and when her son got married last year, she wasn't even invited to the wedding.

Now middle-aged, with a bad temper and friends who only sought her for personal gain, she had no job and nothing to occupy her mind. So, she threw herself into her younger brother's family affairs as if they were her own.

Little did she know that no matter how much she cared, in their eyes, she was just an outsider who "could never do anything right."

Blinded by anger, she disregarded the setting and shot back, "That’s rich coming from you! As if I’m the only villain here! Can you honestly say you don’t have your own motives?!"

Zong Yu's mother flusteredly glanced at the doctor behind the desk, who had remained silent throughout. She stepped forward to pick up the crumpled paper ball and said to Aunt, "Let’s not talk about this anymore," before clutching the paper tightly and hurrying out the door.

As she walked out, Xue Xuanqing was still standing guard by the entrance.

She looked up, and Xue Xuanqing glanced down—their eyes met, one flustered, the other cold.

Xue Xuanqing eyed the crumpled paper ball in her hand and recalled her earlier hysterical outburst inside: "Why did you have to meddle? Why did you ask?" With a sneer, she remarked pointedly, "Even a 'rabbit' bites when cornered? But all I did was show you a statement, and it got you this worked up? Did it ruin your little scheme?"

Xue Xuanqing's voice wasn’t loud, but every word carried a sting.

Zong Yu's mother feigned composure, smoothing her hair as she looked down. "Move aside," she said.

Xue Xuanqing stepped out of her way, and Zong Yu's mother strode briskly toward the ward.

Aunt emerged from the consultation room shortly after. Xue Xuanqing stood a few steps away and scoffed, "Bad karma comes for those with wicked hearts. You’d better watch your step."

Having witnessed Xue Xuanqing's blunt aggression, Aunt knew arguing would only make things worse. With a resentful glare, she turned away without a word and headed straight for the elevator.

At the end of September, dawn broke only after six o'clock, and with the overcast sky, daylight arrived even later. When Xue Xuanqing returned to Zong Ying's ward and drew the curtains, the world outside was still shrouded in gloomy gray.

Hands in her pockets, she stared absently at the people coming and going below until Zong Ying suddenly spoke: "Just came back from upstairs?"

Xue Xuanqing snapped out of her thoughts and turned to Zong Ying. "When did you wake up? You startled me." Then she asked, "How did you know I went upstairs?"

Zong Ying adjusted her position and looked up at her. "Qiushi came by earlier for rounds and mentioned you asked if she’d seen Aunt."

Xue Xuanqing thought to herself that Sheng Qiushi had a big mouth. She explained to Zong Ying, "I just went up to warn her—to stop bothering you all the time."Her complexion looked dull from prolonged sleep deprivation, and her hair was even greasier. Zong Ying gazed at her for a long moment before finally saying, "Xuanqing, thank you."

"Why so formal all of a sudden? It's creepy." Xue Xuanqing walked over to the bed, turned off the light, and picked up the stainless steel thermos. She poured a full paper cup of water, drinking as she spoke. "Their behavior is just disgusting—coveting things that don’t belong to them. Especially that Aunt. Why does she meddle so much? Her own children ignore her, so she goes around bothering other people’s families. What kind of person does that?"

Once her rant was over, so was the water. Xue Xuanqing set down the cup. "Infuriating." Just then, her phone rang. She hurried out to answer it. "Yes, I’m handling that case..."

Xue Xuanqing’s words reminded Zong Ying of the greedy expressions they had worn when fighting over Yan Man’s inheritance after her death. She had long been familiar with people "coveting things that don’t belong to them."

If she had felt disgust back then, now all that remained was a deep chill.

Xue Xuanqing hung up and returned, speaking quickly before leaving. "Got some urgent work to do—I’ll be back soon. Treat this time as a vacation to catch up on sleep. Rest easy. If anyone else bothers you, I’ll go punch them."

Despite her urgency, she still took the time to comfort Zong Ying. The world was full of fair-weather friends who played their parts for mutual benefit, but those who genuinely cared and wished you well were few and far between.

Zong Ying cherished such a bond. She watched silently as the door closed, then shifted her gaze to a sunflower blooming brightly on the bedside table—

It had been brought by Sheng Qingrang the night before.

Days passed one after another. Staying in the hospital for so long faintly reminded her of her time as a resident doctor—the air perpetually smelled of disinfectant, and the sound of ambulances outside never truly ceased.

By late September, Shanghai had taken on a melancholic autumn atmosphere. Fortunately, the National Day holiday was something to look forward to, making the endless rainy days slightly more bearable.

Over seventy years ago, Shanghai had been embroiled in increasingly brutal warfare. Bombings ravaged docks and train stations, making the inland migration route even more treacherous. Yet, to prevent factories from falling into enemy hands, they had no choice but to press on.

Sheng Qingrang shuttled tirelessly between the docks and suburban factories, bogged down by endless tasks. One late night several days prior, Zong Ying, worried that his long commute would waste time, had said, "You don’t need to come every day. I’m perfectly safe here in the hospital."

True to her words, after that night, she never saw him again—only the sunflowers wrapped in old newspapers on the bedside table, always fresh.

One early morning, a nurse delivering medication glanced at the flowers and remarked, "Your sunflower hasn’t wilted even without water."

A nearby intern immediately chimed in, "Of course it hasn’t! That old-fashioned gentleman comes every midnight to replace it. Sometimes at three, sometimes four or five in the morning. After delivering it, he always stops by the clinic to ask about your condition. I’ve personally run into him three times already."

Zong Ying swallowed her pills and looked at the intern. "Does he leave right after asking?"

"Yeah, seems like he’s always in a hurry. You didn’t know? Well, no wonder—you’re always asleep when he comes." The intern then added curiously, "Who is he to you, anyway?"

Zong Ying reached for the sunflower and unfolded a corner of the newspaper wrapped around its stem, spotting the masthead and date—

"North China Daily News.""ber29,1937" (Shanghai, Wednesday, September 29, 1937)

It was yesterday's date from his side.

The end of September brought continuous rain to Shanghai, even the sunflowers carried a dampness. Despite this, their petals remained plump and vibrant, a persistent splash of vitality in the gray-white weather.

Zong Ying carefully rewrapped the sunflowers in newspaper and replied, "A very important person."

On the last day of September, Shanghai was still raining, and by evening, the downpour hadn't ceased.

As the long holiday approached, the city's traffic congestion worsened beyond usual. Neon lights outside the window blurred by rain appeared in patches of red and green. Zong Ying drew the curtains, threw on a cardigan, and stepped out of the hospital room.

She borrowed a computer with external network access from Sheng Qiushi, logged into her email, and downloaded the materials Xue Xuanqing had sent her days earlier regarding Yan Man's fatal fall case. After printing out a stack of documents, she prepared to review them thoroughly once more.

The hospital corridor carried the scent of reheated meals. As Zong Ying walked while reading the documents, someone suddenly tapped her shoulder from behind—

Zong Ying turned sharply to see a middle-aged woman in nursing attire, vaguely familiar, as if they'd met somewhere before.

Frowning slightly, the woman said, "Do you remember me? I'm the caregiver from Zong Yu's room."

Zong Ying turned alertly, "Yes... what is it?"

The caregiver replied, "That child wants to see you."

"Wants to see me?"

"Yes. He specifically asked me to come get you when no one else is in the room."

This wasn't the first time Zong Yu had requested to see her, but this additional "specific instruction" hinted at something different.

Noticing Zong Ying's momentary hesitation, the caregiver added, "There's no one upstairs now. His mother just left and won't be back for at least an hour."

After a brief consideration, Zong Ying rolled up the documents, gripping them in her hand, and decided to go upstairs.

Along the way, the caregiver updated her on Zong Yu's condition: "A few days ago, he almost didn't make it. He's slightly better today, but still relies on machines. He can't speak much."

The hospital lights cast a sterile white glow everywhere, devoid of any warmth. Only when the small bedside lamp in the special care unit was switched on did a faint, warm light emerge.

As Zong Ying sat down, only she and Zong Yu remained in the room.

The boy's complexion was paler than before. Behind the transparent oxygen mask, each labored breath made his chest rise and fall sluggishly.

The curtains were left open. Outside, the rain had stopped. Just as Zong Ying was about to rise and close them, Zong Yu opened his eyes.

His eyelids seemed weighted as he struggled to open them fully, revealing dull, lifeless eyes. Speaking through the oxygen mask, his voice came out muffled and dry: "Sis."

Zong Ying glanced at the monitor—the readings fluctuated slightly but remained stable. She poured some warm water and asked, "Would you like some water?"

Zong Yu's gaze shifted from the cup to her face before he weakly shook his head.

Too much time had passed with too little communication between them, leaving no established pattern for interaction.

Finally, Zong Yu spoke first: "You're hospitalized too." His words came slowly, each syllable slurred. "You're having surgery too."

Zong Ying responded, "Yes."

Another silence settled between them.

Zong Yu closed his eyes briefly before reopening them. His lips parted soundlessly several times.

The back of his hand, where the IV needle was inserted, was bloodless. His fingers twitched slightly before burrowing under the thin blanket as if searching for something. Zong Ying looked down to see him eventually pull out a phone—The screen was cracked—likely a phone retrieved from the scene of the 723 tunnel accident. Fortunately, it wasn’t completely damaged. His finger moved to the power button, holding it down for a moment until the screen lit up.

Zong Ying watched as he fumbled to locate the "Voice Memos" app, tapping it twice before it finally responded and opened.

On the screen, the recording interface appeared first, followed by a list of audio files. The latest entry, labeled "New Recording 28," showed the date "September 19, 2015," with a duration of 1 minute and 15 seconds.

Zong Yu handed the phone to her.

Zong Ying took it, tapped the recording, and held the phone to her ear. The voices were muffled, as if speaking through a door—one male, one female.

The woman’s voice was familiar—Zong Yu’s Mother. The man’s voice wasn’t unfamiliar either; she had heard it at least four times before—

Once over the phone, once at the Sheshan villa, once in a car, and once in Xing Xueyi’s study.

Zong Ying pressed her lips together, straining to listen. Secretary Shen’s voice came through: "The boss said, rather than searching the world like looking for a needle in a haystack, isn’t it more convenient when it’s right in front of you?" The rustling of papers followed, then: "This is Zong Ying’s medical report from July. Given her condition, she must undergo surgery. Whether the operation succeeds or not, her heart belongs to Zong Yu. The match is perfect. All you have to do is wait."

Across the room, a humidifier spewed mist aggressively. Zong Ying felt a chill sweep over her.

She abruptly set the phone down, leaned forward, and turned off the humidifier, gripping Yan Man’s forensic report tightly in her hand.

The room fell silent except for the faint hum of medical equipment. At that moment, Zong Ying could hear the violent pounding of her own heart.

Suddenly, a cold hand grasped her fingers—only to withdraw just as quickly when she snapped back to reality. Even the gaze that had been fixed on her shifted toward the low cabinet by the window.

Following his line of sight, she heard him struggle to speak: "Backpack."

She stood and walked to the cabinet, pulling the curtains shut along the way. Bending down, she opened the cabinet to find several travel bags inside—it seemed Zong Yu’s Mother had been staying here almost continuously.

From the pile, Zong Ying retrieved Zong Yu’s backpack, stained with blood—another item salvaged from the accident scene.

She returned to the bedside, intending to hand it to him, but Zong Yu shook his head, his voice hoarse with pain as he repeated, "Open… open it…"

Her fingers found the zipper pull, and with a sharp "zzzip," the teeth parted. Inside were stacks of test papers, along with a math textbook and a physics book.

Zong Yu reached out. Zong Ying handed him the textbooks first, but he didn’t take them. Only when she passed him the stack of papers did he accept them.

He tried to sit up to flip through them more easily, but his condition made it impossible. The more he struggled, the more frantic he became, the numbers on the nearby monitor flickering uneasily.

Zong Ying kept an eye on the monitor. "What are you looking for? Let me help."

But before she could finish, Zong Yu finally pulled out a few slightly yellowed pages from the stack, his hands trembling as he held them up—

The paper was stained with large patches of blood, the color long since darkened with age.

Printed on it were experimental data and reports. Amid the black-and-white text, charts, and models were a few handwritten notes—Yan Man’s handwriting.She drew a circle and wrote her doubts in small characters next to it.

Zong Ying held these papers, recalling the note in Yan Man's forensic report about "disturbance of bloodstains at the scene." It was as if she could still smell the blood lingering on the pages—

They had been collected from the high-altitude fall scene but were removed before the police were even called.

Yan Man's cause of death was excessive blood loss from the fall. If she had been sent for emergency treatment immediately after the fall, there might have been a sliver of hope.

Yet they were meticulous enough to retrieve this report but couldn’t be bothered to call 120.