The pulse is not steady, but the mind is determined

[Ward Morning]

The VIP ward is divided into two rooms, an inner and an outer one. The inner room is separated by a thick glass partition, through which the green dot of the electrocardiogram monitor slowly crawls; the outer room is carpeted in light gray, and a wall lamp in the corner is dimmed to its lowest setting. This is where family members and caregivers stay; any sounds, footsteps, or emotions must be processed outside the door before entering.

At 6:30 in the morning, the corridor lights hadn't completely gone out yet. Hu Li, carrying a brown paper bag, stopped in front of the observation window and looked for two seconds. Inside the glass, Mu Tianlang sat on the side of the valet chair, wearing a coat, his arms wrapped around himself as if to keep the chill inside his ribs. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep; a deep line was etched between his brows by the night.

She pressed the doorknob as lightly as possible and pushed it open a crack. The hinges clicked almost inaudibly, but he kept his eyes open and took a short breath. Only when he saw it was her did his shoulder line slowly relax.

He lowered his voice: "Why are you here?"

She placed the paper bag on the sideboard, a slight smile playing at the corners of her eyes: "Let me see if the wolf has lost any fur, and if it's still alright."

He hummed in agreement, but didn't smile, though the line between his brows loosened by half a millimeter.

She laid out her breakfast items one by one: congee, warm tofu, two small boxes of fruit, and an egg. None of them were heavy on flavor, but each one was comforting and warming. "I'll eat a little first, then go to sleep after the doctor's rounds."

He sat up straight and said in a low voice, "She doesn't know you're here yet."

"I'll stay in the outer room, I won't disturb you." She lifted a corner of the porridge lid, letting the steam rise slowly; then she turned the spoon to his usual angle and said softly, "Don't push yourself."

He picked up the spoon but put it back down, the veins on the back of his fingers bulging. She raised her hand and gently pushed his brow with her fingertip: "Don't frown yet."

His Adam's apple bobbed, but he didn't speak. Instead, he instinctively grasped her hand. It was a light touch, like grabbing a piece of still-warm driftwood. He held his forehead against the back of her hand for a second, his breath lessening its harshness, before pulling it away on his own.

"I'm here." She cupped his cheek with her other hand, her voice calm. "You don't have to keep holding on."

He whispered, "I'm afraid if I fall asleep, I'll miss the sound." He paused, then whispered even lower, "That beeping sound came on so fast..."

She reached her hands behind his back, smoothed them along his spine, and patted his shoulder blades twice with a short, steady rhythm, as if teaching him to catch his breath.

The air outside rose and fell slowly, and his shoulders finally slumped a little. Only then did she push the bowl of porridge towards him: "Have a bite first, don't let your stomach be empty."

My phone vibrated on the desktop; a message popped up from overseas: "After finishing up here, I'll take off tonight and arrive tomorrow morning." Just those two dry sentences.

Mu Tianlang's eyes darkened slightly. He simply said "I understand," and didn't reply.

The green dot on the monitor inside the door moved steadily. Hu Li lowered her eyes to look at his hand holding the spoon—to outsiders he was a wolf, cold, precise, and with a strong bite; but at this moment she saw more of that soft, uneasy thing that he was pressing down so hard. She suddenly understood: he wasn't afraid of the dark, he was afraid of the lights in the house suddenly going out.

The white walls absorbed the sound completely. It was time for rounds, and the doctor explained the treatment plan concisely and clearly: medication, monitoring, observation points, plus two potential risks. When he said "potential," his shoulder line shifted almost imperceptibly, as if a breath was stuck in his chest—at that moment, he took a half-step closer, placed the back of his hand against the outside of her wrist for a second, then withdrew it.

The doctor pushed the last page towards him. He gripped the pen, took a breath, and then wrote the name. "Understood."

The ward round team had gone far away, leaving only the perpetually lit green light at the exit in the corridor. Hu Li broke down the key points into three things and wrote them on the back of the registration receipt: 1. Ask the doctor what should and shouldn't be done today; 2. Compile a list of caregivers; 3. Eat something first. She handed it to him: "Just do these three things today, ignore everything else for now."

He pressed his fingertip against the edge of the paper and said in a low voice, "I'm afraid I won't do it well."

"Even if it's not done well, it's still today's result." She glanced at him, a slight smile playing on her lips. "We can make it up tomorrow."

At this moment, Assistant Xiao Zhou jogged over carrying a file box and whispered, "President, these documents need to be signed first."

He took a half step to the side, naturally creating distance between them, and took the pen to sign three places next to the label: "According to the procedure, sign the form first, and submit the official document this afternoon."

Xiao Zhou responded "Okay," collected the documents, and retreated to the outer circle. Hu Li placed a small brown paper bag on the bench: "A box of masks, two hand warmers, and three candies. Take what you need." She stood up, "I'll go back now. Call me if you need anything."

He didn't try to stop him, only nodded: "Yes." His cufflinks gleamed and dimmed in the cold light, and he put the back of his hand into his pocket, as if he were taking back the words he was about to say.

She walked to the corner, turned back, and mouthed, "Finish eating."

He nodded to her. Shortly after she left, Xiao Zhou returned and whispered, "There's an update on the surreptitious filming: someone contacted the shift leader of Security Team Three to take photos at a designated time. The bank account is still being traced."

His brow furrowed: "Retrieve the handover and shift records from all three groups, and back up the chat logs. Have finance trace the accounts one more layer."

"good."

[Resort Supply Room/Temporary Workroom (Night)]

Only half a hanging lamp was lit in the materials room at the moment, and the wind slipped in through the cracks in the unloading door, carrying the smell of salt onto the cement floor. Hu Li spread out the sea glass and driftwood he had collected from the shore of the cultural center that day directly on the long workbench—tools were readily available and materials were within easy reach, eliminating the need to carry them back and forth. The label on the wall listed specifications and inventory, and metal rulers and carving knives were neatly placed next to the tool cart.

She picked out a piece of frosted glass that looked like a teardrop, placed it on a piece of white paper, and first drew a cold, hard straight line with a pencil, then drew a slightly off-center line next to it, leaving a finger-width gap between the two lines. She gently secured the glass with transparent tape, adjusted the angle of the hanging lamp, and made sure that the point of green light fell precisely at the junction.

The driftwood was completely dry, its grain resembling a series of sentences written by wind and waves. She shaved off a small piece and embedded it beneath the glass, sewing the wood and glass together with extremely fine copper wire, as if binding the time of two seas together. She wrote in the corner with a marker: "The direction the wind came from."

She replaced the glass with another piece—this one shaped like a small arc, its surface frosted from sanding. She stood it upright, letting the light pass through, and a faint shadow appeared on the wall behind the dust cloth. Within the shadow, she added an almost invisible fox ear tip, and outside the shadow, a minimalist wolf shoulder line. She revealed nothing, leaving only the outline for the viewer to piece together.

As she worked, she muttered to herself, "These things are more honest than rumors."

Her phone vibrated on the workbench; it was a notification from the food delivery platform: the meal had been delivered. She gave it a thumbs-up with the back of her finger, then tightened the copper wire by a little more. A faint red mark appeared on the edge. She took a deep breath, wiped it with an alcohol swab, put on thin gloves, and continued.

I had just washed my hands and returned to my desk when an email notification popped up. Sender: EMMA.

——

Dear Miss Hu:

I looked at your work again. What I like most is the way you let light breathe within the material—you don't pose it, yet you let the light find its place on its own. This restraint and dynamism appearing simultaneously in the same piece is rare.

Autumn in Provence is the grape season, with clear days and breezy nights. I imagine your artwork casting its shadow on a stone wall, next to a glass of perfectly aged wine.

If you'd like, I formally invite you to participate in our group exhibition this fall. I sincerely hope that more people will be able to see your work.

——EMMA

——

Hu Li stared at the few paragraphs, a slow smile playing on her lips. She shrunk the letter to half-screen size, aligning the glass shadow on the table with the words. She reached out and measured the edge of the shadow, as if gauging a distance from here to there.

She didn't reply immediately, but typed two lines in her drafts: "Thank you for your enthusiasm. I'm preparing a series of works that capture the wind." Then she saved the draft. The wind outside swept through the night, stirring a corner of the curtains, like someone gently knocking on the door.

The phone lit up again; it was an unknown number.

You are my face. Don't make me look bad.

Another one:

You know what to do.

She stared at it for three seconds, her fingers feeling like they were touching ice. She slid the conversation into silent mode and folded it back onto the desktop. She flipped back to the sketchbook and added three words next to "The direction the wind is coming from": Uncontrollable. Then she closed the sketchbook and let out a long sigh.

[Night in the Ward]

The night made the white walls appear even quieter. Only one light remained on in the outer room, and several documents and a tablet lay spread out on the table. Mu Tianlang sat on the sofa, turned the last page to the corner, and wrote two lines of instructions:

—Marketing budget, third edition, prioritizes retaining offline brand activities;

—The resort’s outsourced security team 3 has been suspended from rotation pending the investigation results.

He put down his pen, rubbed his temples with his index finger and thumb, turned off the desk lamp, leaving only the wall lamp on. Behind the glass door, his mother slept lightly, her breath like fragments of wind falling onto the sheets.

He stood up, walked to the door, his fingers gripping the metal edge of the door frame with a tight, controlled grip, as if he were fighting against something wilder. He reached out to smooth a strand of white hair at his temple, but stopped halfway up, then slowly lowered his hand, placing instead a glass of freshly changed warm water on the bedside table.

He whispered, "Mom, I'm here." His voice was so soft it was as if he didn't want to disturb something.

The monitor beeped steadily. He tucked the blanket back in and pushed the pillow in half a finger to make his neck more stable. After doing this, he went to the outer room, closed the door, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes for a moment.

His phone was on silent. He glanced at the top of the message list: his father's schedule, a greeting from the board member, and her—a photo of the small list on the back of the registration receipt lay there, "Three things to do today." He mentally checked them off one by one: ask the doctor, organize the caregiver list, eat something first. The three checkmarks lit up, like three tiny streetlights in the darkness.

He suddenly remembered her words that morning, pressing his brow and telling him "Don't frown," and the hard stone in his throat seemed to be gently moved. He sat back on the sofa, opened his tablet, and reorganized the folders again, leaving a memo: "Tomorrow morning at 7:30, check the video backups and fund transfer details with the legal department."

A faint ray of light seeped through the curtains. He thought that if he learned this time to break down the "right thing" into three parts—today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow—perhaps he wouldn't burden himself with so much weight in one night. Maybe being a good son isn't about becoming someone else, but about sitting by the bed when it's time to sit, asking questions when it's time to ask, and eating when it's time to eat.

He turned on his phone, typed, "Are you in the dorm yet?", paused for two seconds, then deleted it. He changed it to one word: "Goodnight." The cursor blinked three times, but he still turned off the screen. In that instant, he saw a white paper cup on the corner of the table, with a faint water mark on the rim—like a small circle of warmth from someone pressing it into his palm.

He got up, went to the glass door, and whispered again, "I'm here." It was as if he were speaking to his mother, or perhaps to the one who always woke up in the dark. The night deepened, but the wind outside grew clearer. The wolf sheathed its teeth, stood guard by its den, and waited for dawn.