Xu Zhuohua lay in the clinic at the erased Nanhu station for seven days.

It was described as a deep sleep, but not entirely.

She would occasionally open her eyes, her pupils slowly moving within their sockets, like two pools of stagnant water rippling gently in the wind.

Xinghua brought over some warm water and gently fed it to her lips with a small spoon. She obediently opened her mouth and swallowed the water, making a soft sound in her throat, like sandpaper being rubbed.

If she is offered soft, sticky rice porridge, she will eat a few mouthfuls, her movements as slow as a rusty puppet, but her eyes are always empty, as if she is looking through everything in front of her at some distant place that no one can reach.

Outside the window is a small pond. It is the height of summer, and the lotus leaves are crowded together, covering the entire pond. The pink and white lotus flowers stand tall and sway gently in the wind, and even the air is filled with the sweet fragrance of lotus.

When Xu Zhuohua is awake, she mostly looks out the window, her gaze falling on the lush greenery and delicate pink blossoms. She can sit there for half a day without saying a word, and even blinks very infrequently.

It's not that I don't want to say it, it's that I can't.

That fire not only destroyed her former home, but also damaged her voice and lungs.

Every day when Dr. Liu came to examine her pulse, he would repeatedly instruct her to rest quietly and not to talk too much, otherwise she would damage her health and might not be able to utter a complete sentence in the future.

The herbal medicine he prescribed was extremely bitter, and Xinghua always prepared candied fruit with it. However, Xu Zhuohua never frowned or looked at the candied fruit when drinking the medicine, as if his sense of taste had been burned away along with the fire.

Xinghua took the best care of her, attending to her every need in terms of food, clothing, shelter, and transportation. However, her eyes were always red, and if she wasn't careful, tears would fall like beads from a broken string.

She was afraid, afraid that Xu Zhuohua would ask about that name.

News came intermittently, saying that Cheng Muyun had gone mad, and she was afraid that Xu Zhuohua wouldn't be able to accept it.

Xinghua didn't dare utter a single word.

She could only serve him with extra care, watching Xu Zhuohua, like a handful of ashes that had been burned out, quietly nestled there, without a trace of life.

Sometimes she would even selfishly think that this was for the best, at least she wouldn't have to endure that heart-wrenching pain.

But whenever she saw Xu Zhuohua's gaze as he looked out the window at the lotus pond, she felt that something heavier than madness was hidden in that unfathomable emptiness, causing Xinghua's heart to sink little by little, to the bottom of the cold water.

The phrase "heart as cold as ashes" was something Xu Zhuohua had only seen in books before, and she always thought it was just an exaggerated expression by writers. Only now did she truly and thoroughly understand it.

That wasn't pain, nor sorrow; it was the emptiness that followed when even pain and sorrow had burned away, like a bonfire extinguished by a downpour, leaving only damp ashes that vanished without a trace with a gust of wind, leaving not even a trace of warmth.

She thought she would die in that fire.

When the flames licked the window frame, the heat was so intense that she couldn't open her eyes, and the thick smoke made her lungs feel like they were about to explode. She had even closed her eyes, waiting to be swallowed by the scorching heat.

But just then, Hu Moli suddenly pushed her away, with such force that she staggered and bumped into the corner of the wall.

Immediately afterwards, a cool spray was poured over her head—the only source of water, which Hu Moli poured all over her.

"Let's go!" She seemed to hear Hu Moli shout this, but then again, she didn't; the ringing in her ears drowned out everything else.

When she looked up again, she saw Hu Moli being hit hard by a falling beam, her body going limp as she collapsed into the sea of ​​fire, her hair instantly ignited.

Xu Zhuohua frantically tried to crawl over, but just as her fingertips were about to touch the hem of her clothes, a violent shockwave knocked her to the ground, her head slamming heavily against the stone steps. Everything went black, and she knew nothing more.

Now she is alive, without a single burn scar on her body, but the wound in her heart feels as if it has been repeatedly scorched by fire and frozen by ice, making even breathing a dull ache.

Dr. Liu said she was frightened and depressed, but only Xu Zhuohua knew that it wasn't depression, but emptiness—an emptiness that Hu Moli had given her with her life, an emptiness that she had nowhere to place.

Because Hu Moli died in her place.

She always remembered Hu Moli saying she wanted to go to Europe before the fire, her longing eyes like those of a child with candy in their hand, filled with boundless hope for the future.

Every time Xu Zhuohua thought of that look, her heart ached as if it were being squeezed tightly by an invisible hand, and her throat and pharynx felt a dense, stinging pain, as if countless fine needles were pricking her.

She opened her mouth, wanting to call out "Jasmine," but only a hoarse, breathy sound came out. The sound crashed into the empty room and fell back into her own heart, shattering into finer ashes.

That day, Xu Zhuohua had just taken her medicine and felt much better. Doctor Liu was indeed a direct disciple of a family of traditional Chinese medicine practitioners; his medical skills were beyond description.

Xu Zhuohua rarely has such a clear-headed moment.

Morning light streamed through the window, casting a soft, warm yellow glow on the edge of the bed. She slowly sat up, supported by Xinghua's hand, put on a light blouse, and leaned against the headboard, her gaze falling once more on the lotus pond outside the window.

My mind, which had been in a daze for days, felt as if it had been washed by the morning dew; though still heavy, it was a little clearer.

The lotus leaves in the pond are crowded together, their green color shining brightly. When the wind blows, they stir up layers of green waves. The lotus flowers hidden among the leaves are half-open and half-closed, their pink and white petals glistening with morning dew, exuding a shy and charming innocence.

As she gazed at the vibrant green, her eyes softened slightly, but suddenly a ripple spread across the water's surface—a small, black-awning boat was slowly emerging from the depths of the lotus leaves.

A boatman dressed in coarse cloth stood at the bow, gently pushing the boat with a bamboo pole, and the boat skillfully avoided the lotus leaves, heading this way.

A passenger stood at the stern, his shadow stretching long in the morning light.

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