The hospital smelled sharper than memory.
Antiseptic burned Ling's throat as she stepped inside, stride fast, coat still unbuttoned, hair pulled back without care.
The corridor lights reflected off polished floors, too clean, too bright—nothing like the house Dadi filled with noise and incense and laughter that never asked permission.
They saw her before she reached them.
Rina froze first. Her eyes widened, then filled instantly.
"Ling—"
Victor turned. For a second, the calm he always wore slipped. Relief crossed his face before he could stop it.
Eliza's hand flew to her mouth.
Four months.
That was how long it had been since they had seen her standing in front of them like this—alive, breathing, real.
Ling stopped a few steps away. She didn't hug anyone. She didn't speak. Her eyes moved over them quickly, counting.
Victor. Eliza. Rina. Jian and Rowen standing slightly back, uncharacteristically quiet. Mira near the wall, hands clenched together, watching Ling like she might vanish again.
"Where is she?" Ling asked.
Her voice was steady. It fooled no one.
Victor cleared his throat. "ICU."
Ling nodded once. "Take me."
Eliza reached out instinctively, fingers brushing Ling's sleeve. "Ling—"
Ling flinched. Not away. Just… tight.
"I need to see her."
No one stopped her this time.
The ICU doors slid open with a soft mechanical sound that felt too gentle for what waited inside.
Dadi lay surrounded by machines.
The woman who used to clap her hands loudly to summon servants. Who laughed with her whole body. Who grabbed Ling's face between her palms and called her stubborn, foolish, brilliant.
Now she was small.
So still.
Tubes traced her body like lines drawn by strangers. The steady beep of the monitor filled the room, slow and merciless.
Ling took one step.
Then another.
Her breath broke.
"No," she whispered.
Her knees nearly gave out. She caught herself on the bed rail, fingers gripping metal hard enough to hurt. Tears spilled freely now, uncontained, blurring everything.
"Dadi," Ling said, voice cracking completely.
She dropped into the chair beside the bed, reaching for the hand that had always pulled her close. It felt warm. Real. That only made it worse.
"I came back," she said shakily. "I'm here."
Her forehead pressed gently against Dadi's knuckles. Her shoulders shook, no restraint left, no audience she cared about anymore.
"I should've answered," Ling whispered. "I should've come sooner."
Behind her, Rina covered her mouth, crying silently. Jian stared at the floor, jaw tight. Rowen's eyes were red, unfocused.
Victor stood still, watching his daughter fold in a way he had never seen—not even at her worst.
Eliza turned away.
Ling lifted her head slowly, wiping her face with the back of her hand, anger slipping into the grief.
"You don't get to scare me like this," she said to Dadi, voice trembling. "Not after everything."
She squeezed Dadi's hand carefully, like she was afraid to break her.
"I'm not done yet," Ling added. "You're not allowed to leave."
The monitor continued its rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Ling stayed there, holding on, tears dripping onto white sheets that did not belong to her—but somehow held the only family member who ever truly knew her.
For the first time in months, Ling Kwong did not feel alone.
She felt afraid.
And she did not let go.
Ling stepped out of the ICU slowly, like leaving too fast might undo whatever fragile balance was holding inside.
The doors slid shut behind her with a muted sound. The hallway felt colder than before. Brighter. Too exposed.
She wiped her face once, hard, then again—slower this time. Whatever had broken inside the room had to stay there. That was the rule. That had always been the rule.
A doctor approached, flipping through a file, glasses low on his nose. He looked up, eyes professional, assessing.
"You're Ling Kwong," he said.
"Yes."
"She's your grandmother?"
Ling nodded. Her jaw tightened. "Is she okay?"
The doctor didn't answer immediately. That pause made something sharp twist in her chest.
"She's stable," he said finally. "For now."
For now.
Ling's fingers curled at her sides. "What does that mean?"
"It means the immediate danger has passed," the doctor replied calmly. "But she's not out of risk."
Victor stepped closer. "What kind of risk?"
The doctor glanced between them, then spoke carefully. "Stress."
Ling's eyes lifted sharply.
"She's strong," Victor said instinctively. "She always has been."
The doctor nodded once. "Strength doesn't change biology."
Ling didn't blink.
"At her age," the doctor continued, "emotional or psychological stress can trigger complications. Arrhythmia. Another attack. Something irreversible."
The word landed heavy.
Irreversible.
"So what do we do?" Rina asked quietly from behind.
"You reduce stress," the doctor said plainly. "No shock. No conflict. No emotional strain. She needs calm. Routine. Familiarity."
His gaze settled on Ling again, lingering just a fraction longer.
"She needs family," he added. "Present family."
Ling swallowed.
"I'll assign a nurse for constant monitoring," the doctor said, closing the file. "But understand this—another major stressor could undo everything we've stabilized."
He paused, then said it clearly, without softness.
"It's not okay for her age to take stress."
When he walked away, the hallway felt emptier.
No one spoke for a moment.
Victor exhaled slowly. Eliza clasped her hands together, eyes distant. Rina wiped her cheeks, trying to compose herself.
Ling stood perfectly still.
"She worries about you," Rina said quietly. "You know that."
Ling's throat tightened, but her voice stayed steady. "I know."
Victor studied her face. "You don't have to disappear again."
Ling didn't answer immediately.
She looked back at the ICU doors. At the place where Dadi lay, fragile in a way Ling had never allowed herself to imagine.
"I won't," she said at last.
It wasn't a promise spoken loudly.
It was a decision.
"I'll stay," Ling added. "I'll keep things quiet."
Victor nodded once. "That's all anyone's asking."
Ling closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. Control slid back into place, precise and deliberate—but something underneath had shifted.
Stress.
She had always been stress.