dim light

These two words, like two red-hot needles, pierced the hearts of Qi Shuo and Xiao Jue unexpectedly. They both froze. The air in the ward seemed to solidify.

Going home... What does "home" mean to her?

Was it that nightmare filled with violence and bloodshed? Or was it the ward that Xiao Jue later created for her, filled with the smell of disinfectant and tender care?

Or perhaps it's just an unconscious repetition triggered by the instinctive image of birds returning to their nests?

Qi Shuo's fingertips instantly turned icy cold. He clenched his fists tightly, forcing himself to remain calm through the pain. He couldn't panic, he couldn't show any abnormality.

Fortunately, Qingran seemed to have only unconsciously repeated the word without making any deeper connections. She was quickly drawn to a small piece of apple that Xiao Jue handed her, and ate it in small bites, no longer looking out the window.

But this small, back-and-forth "dialogue" was like a glimmer of light, illuminating the thorny path ahead.

This proves that Qingran does not reject the existence of this "big brother". In fact, she has begun to include him in the scope of "communication" without being influenced by him, although this communication is still at the most superficial and safest level.

Changes occur quietly through the daily, silent, and persistent companionship.

Qi Shuo was then allowed to sit closer to the bed, accompanied by Xiao Jue.

He began to try, with Xiao Jue's permission, to hand Qing Ran a water glass, or to steady her toy tower when she was playing. His movements were always gentle and slow, with an almost reverent care.

One day, Qingran woke up from her afternoon nap feeling a little groggy. She hugged her rabbit plushie and unconsciously snuggled closer to a warm spot.

She snuggled into Xiao Jue's arms, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, and then, half asleep, rested her head on Qi Shuo's shoulder, who was sitting on the other side of the chair. Even with just a light touch, she flinched at the different sensation and immediately pulled back, snuggling back into Xiao Jue's arms.

But that brief touch, that faint warmth and weight transmitted through the fabric, struck Qi Shuo like a thunderbolt, leaving him frozen in place, completely still.

He held his breath, his heart almost stopping, afraid of disturbing this fleeting intimacy.

Only after Qingran found a comfortable position in Xiao Jue's arms and fell into a deep sleep did Qi Shuo slowly, extremely slowly, exhale a breath of stale air, his back already soaked with cold sweat. It was a tremor mixed with immense ecstasy and overwhelming fear.

Xiao Jue witnessed all of this. He watched Qi Shuo go from being stiff and helpless at the beginning to gradually relaxing and becoming natural.

Watching Qingran go from initial wariness and indifference to later tacit approval and occasional interaction.

Looking at the invisible wall between the two, it was gradually worn away by time and patience in the silent companionship day after day, revealing a faint glimmer of light.

The burden on his shoulders seemed to have been partially lifted without him even realizing it. It wasn't that the weight had lessened, but rather that someone was now sharing the burden with him.

The suffocating feeling of fighting alone, day and night, almost crushing him, quietly subsided somewhat. He was still her most relied-upon "Little Brother Jue," her pillar and haven.

But now, when he is tired, he can breathe a little easier because he knows that there is another person watching over him with the same focus and care.

When he needs to leave for a moment to handle work or procedures, he no longer needs to worry, because he knows that Qi Shuo is there. Even if he is just sitting there silently, it is a kind of invisible companionship and protection.

This change is subtle, yet very real.

Xiao Jue felt a long-lost, faint sense of relief. It wasn't that he had unloaded his responsibilities, but rather that the heavy burden of those responsibilities was finally understood and shared by someone.

He watched as Qi Shuo gazed at Qing Ran, his gaze revealing an almost greedy tenderness and deep-seated pain hidden beneath a calm surface; he watched as Qing Ran, with Qi Shuo's clumsy company, occasionally showed an expression that was more relaxed than usual.

Watching these two blood relatives, cruelly torn apart by fate and reconnected in such a distorted way, stumble through the thorns, trying to rebuild a new and fragile bond... his heart ached, it hurt, but it was also... slightly swollen.

Finally, on an evening when Qingran was unusually calm, a little tired from playing with her toys, and yawning slightly, Xiao Jue made a decision.

He gently put down the picture book in his hand, looked at Qi Shuo sitting on the edge of the bed, silently looking out the window, and gestured with his eyes.

Qi Shuo turned his head, somewhat puzzled.

Xiao Jue bent down slightly and whispered in Qing Ran's ear in a gentle, coaxing tone, "Ranran, are you sleepy? How about this big brother tells you a bedtime story? Just a short one, and then we'll go to sleep."

Qingran rubbed her sleepy eyes, tilted her head to look at Xiao Jue, and then followed his gaze to look at Qi Shuo.

There was no fear in her eyes, only the bewilderment brought on by drowsiness and a trace of dependence. She seemed to think for a few seconds, then nodded very softly and mumbled an "Mmm".

That nod, that "hmm," was like a pardon, or a thunderclap, exploding in Qi Shuo's ears.

He suddenly looked at Xiao Jue, his eyes filled with disbelief, shock, and...panic.

Let him tell the story? For Qingran? Him? Can he handle it? Will he scare her? What if he says the wrong thing?

Xiao Jue nodded almost imperceptibly at him, his eyes filled with silent encouragement and trust.

Then, he stood up, gave up the seat closest to Qingran on the bed, and stepped back two steps to sit in the chair that Qi Shuo had been sitting in, handing over the reins to him.

Qi Shuo's heart was pounding wildly in his chest, making his eardrums buzz.

He felt his throat go dry, and his palms instantly broke out in a cold sweat. He looked at the little figure on the bed, who was hugging a rabbit doll, her eyes half-closed, waiting for his "story".

The setting sun outside the window shone through the glass, casting a soft glow on her pale cheeks, making her look like a fragile porcelain doll.

He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. His movements were extremely slow, as if he were afraid of disturbing the dust in the air, as he moved to the spot that Xiao Jue had given him.

He didn't sit too close, maintaining a just-right distance. Then, he lowered his head, his gaze falling on the fairy tale book that Xiao Jue had just put down.

The book opens to reveal a brightly colored illustration of a little fox and the moon under a starry sky.

His gaze lingered on the illustration for a few seconds, then he looked up at Qing Ran through the blue mask. Qing Ran was also half-opening her eyes, quietly watching him, waiting for him to speak.

Qi Shuo opened his mouth, but found his throat too tight to make a sound. He cleared his throat, and his voice, coming through the mask, trembled slightly and was low and hoarse from suppressed effort:

Once upon a time... there was a little fox.

He spoke slowly, each word seeming to be squeezed out of his throat, awkward and stiff, yet carrying an unusual focus and seriousness: "It lives in... a very, very large forest."

Qingran blinked, her long eyelashes like small fans.

Qi Shuo's narration was halting and clumsy, far less fluent and vivid than Xiao Jue's. He often had to stop to think, searching for the right, simplest words. Sometimes he would repeat himself, sometimes he would get stuck. But he didn't give up; he just tried his best, word by word, to weave the simple story of the little fox finding its way home.

His voice maintained a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm, neither too loud nor too soft, as if afraid of disturbing this hard-won tranquility.

“It’s very dark in the forest at night, and the little fox… is a little scared.” Qi Shuo said slowly, his gaze involuntarily falling on Qing Ran’s face, observing her reaction.

Seeing that she was still listening quietly and did not show any unease, he continued, "It looked up and saw in the sky... many, many bright little stars. And... a big, yellow moon."

He paused, recalling a long, long time ago when Shan Shan was very young and was also afraid of the dark.

He would always hold her, point to the stars outside the window, and tell her that the gods in the sky were protecting them, and that they would always protect Shanshan and ensure her a peaceful and safe life.

A sharp, bitter taste suddenly shot up his nose. He bit the inside of his mouth hard, using the pain to suppress the inappropriate memory.

“The stars winked at the little fox. The moon… smiled at it.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “The little fox wasn’t scared anymore. It thought, the stars and the moon are with it. It… isn’t alone.”

The story was brief, even somewhat incoherent. But Qi Shuo told it very seriously and slowly, as if performing a sacred ritual.

Qingran listened quietly without interrupting or showing any impatience. Her eyes slowly closed, then she tried to open them again, clearly growing increasingly sleepy.

Finally, the story came to an end: "...the little fox...found its way home. It was very happy."

Qi Shuo's voice grew lower and softer, like a feather slowly drifting down.

The girl on the bed had closed her eyes, her breathing becoming even and deep. Long eyelashes cast quiet shadows beneath her eyelids, and the fingers clutching her doll loosened slightly. She was asleep.

Qi Shuo stopped, the last word fading into the quiet air.

He remained motionless in his original position, like a frozen sculpture. He watched her quietly, watching her nostrils twitch slightly in her sleep, her small, pale lips, and her peaceful, serene sleeping face.

The wildly beating heart in his chest finally calmed down, one beat at a time, and was replaced by a huge, almost overwhelming, bittersweet feeling.

He did it. He told Qingran a story and lulled her to sleep.

Although they were separated by masks, by his identity as an "older brother," and by eight years of blood and tears, at this moment, she fell asleep peacefully to the clumsy stories he told.

There was no fear, no crying, only calm breathing.

I don't know how much time passed; it might have been just a minute, or it might have been a long century.

Xiao Jue walked over gently, bent down, and tucked the blanket around Qing Ran very softly. Then he straightened up and looked at Qi Shuo, who was still sitting stiffly.

Under the dim light, the eyes of the two men met in mid-air.

Qi Shuo's eyes were red, and although he tried his best to hold back, his surging emotions were almost about to burst out. Xiao Jue's eyes were also a little moist, but he gave Qi Shuo a very slight, yet incredibly clear, smile of encouragement and relief.

That smile held weariness and heartache, but even more so, it held a cautious hope, like a glimmer of light piercing through the thick clouds.

Xiao Jue silently pointed to the door, indicating that they could leave.

Qi Shuo then seemed to wake from a dream. He stood up very slowly and carefully, as if afraid of disturbing the girl sleeping peacefully in bed.

He took one last deep look at Qingran's sleeping face, as if trying to etch this scene into the depths of his soul, before turning around and following Xiao Jue, tiptoeing out of the ward and gently closing the door behind him.

The door closed behind me, shutting out the warm light and even breathing sounds from inside.

The cold air and the smell of disinfectant filled the corridor. Qi Shuo leaned against the cold wall, as if he had exhausted all his strength. He raised his hand and slowly took off the mask that was already soaked with his breath.

The lower half of his face, visible only by his lips, was hard and cold, his lips pressed tightly together, his jawline taut like a stone. But his slightly trembling fingertips and the uncontrollable, burning wetness beneath his tightly closed eyes betrayed the turmoil raging within him.

Xiao Jue stood beside him without saying a word, but silently placed his hand on his shoulder and pressed down firmly. The pressure was heavy, carrying a silent comfort and a sense of understanding born of shared suffering.

They all knew this was just a tiny, insignificant step in the long, dark night. Ahead lay still shrouded in mist and strewn with thorns.

Qingran's condition continued to fluctuate, the shadows of her memories lingered, and the bloodshed of the past remained a nightmare they could not escape.

But at least, at this moment, on this thorny road, they were no longer walking alone. They had each other, and this silent companionship and support, carefully built upon the ruins.

Even this companionship is still separated by masks, lies, and unspeakable pain.

But it did exist nonetheless. Like a tender sprout struggling to emerge from a crack in the rock, fragile, yet possessing an undeniable, vital force for life.

At least, they have a glimmer of hope to keep going.