Night settled over the hospital without ceremony.
The corridor lights dimmed to their lowest setting, casting long, pale reflections across the polished floor. The usual daytime noise—footsteps, carts, murmured conversations—had thinned into something sparse and intermittent. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor chimed softly before falling silent again.
Room 417 lay at the end of the ward.
Inside, the air carried the familiar scent of disinfectant and recycled oxygen. A single bed occupied the center of the room, its rails raised more out of habit than necessity. Machines stood nearby, their screens glowing faintly, recording numbers that changed slowly, almost reluctantly.
Xu Ran lay still beneath a thin blanket. He was sixteen years old, though his body did not reflect it. His frame was slight, his shoulders narrow, as though he had never quite finished growing. His breathing was shallow but steady, each rise of his chest measured and careful, as if excess effort had long ago been abandoned.
A woman sat in the chair beside the bed, her head bowed.
Liu Shuqin had fallen asleep sometime after midnight, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight despite the awkward angle. Even in rest, she carried herself as though afraid that relaxing too much might invite something irreversible.
The room was quiet.
Then, without sound or disturbance, someone stood near the window.
There was no sense of arrival. No shift in the air. No footstep marking the transition from absence to presence. One moment, the space beside the curtain was empty. The next, it was not.
Lin Yuan looked out through the narrow gap between fabric and glass. The city beyond the window lay scattered with lights—apartment blocks, streetlamps, the occasional passing car. From this height, it all appeared distant and orderly, as though the chaos of human lives could be reduced to a pattern if observed from far enough away.
He did not linger. His gaze moved instead to the boy on the bed.
Xu Ran's eyes were open. He had not sensed the man's arrival. He had simply been awake, watching the faint reflection of corridor light on the ceiling, listening to the slow rhythm of the machines that tracked what his body could no longer manage on its own.
When his eyes shifted, it was not in alarm. Only curiosity.
"You're not a doctor," Xu Ran said quietly.
Lin Yuan turned toward him.
"No," he replied. His voice was calm, unremarkable. Neither soft nor firm. It carried no weight beyond the words themselves.
Xu Ran studied him for a moment longer. His gaze was steady, lacking the usual defensiveness people his age often displayed. Illness had taken many things from him, but attentiveness was not one of them.
"You came in very quietly," the boy said.
Lin Yuan inclined his head slightly. "I didn't wish to wake anyone."
Xu Ran glanced toward his mother, then back. "She sleeps lightly," he said. "But tonight, she hasn't moved."
Lin Yuan did not respond to that. He stepped closer, stopping just short of the bed. He did not touch the rails. Did not look at the machines. His attention rested solely on the boy.
"Does it hurt today?" he asked.
Xu Ran considered the question carefully.
"Not as much," he said after a moment. "It usually feels heavier at night. Like breathing costs more."
"And tonight?"
"It still costs something," Xu Ran replied. "Just… less."
Lin Yuan nodded, as though that answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
They fell into silence. It was not an awkward silence. The boy did not feel pressured to speak, and Lin Yuan did not fill the space unnecessarily. The machines continued their quiet vigil, numbers changing incrementally, unaware of the attention they were no longer receiving.
After a while, Xu Ran spoke again.
"Are you visiting someone?" he asked.
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
Lin Yuan looked at him steadily. "Because I passed by."
Xu Ran accepted that without protest. People rarely passed by this ward unless they had reason. Doctors, nurses, family members—they all arrived with purpose. This man did not feel like any of those things. That made him different.
Xu Ran shifted slightly, adjusting his position. The movement was slow, deliberate, as though he were accustomed to rationing even small efforts.
"There's a place," Lin Yuan said, "where rest comes easily."
Xu Ran did not immediately respond. The words settled between them, neither heavy nor light.
"Is it far?" the boy asked.
"No."
"Does it fix things?" Xu Ran continued.
Lin Yuan did not answer right away.
"No," he said finally.
Xu Ran's expression did not change. If anything, his shoulders relaxed slightly.
"That's good," he said. "I don't like it when people lie to make me feel better."
Lin Yuan regarded him for a moment longer.
"If you went," he said, "you would not be alone. But I would not promise more than quiet."
Xu Ran thought about that. His gaze drifted to the window, to the dim city lights beyond, then back to the man standing beside his bed.
"Would it make breathing easier?" he asked.
"Yes," Lin Yuan said.
Xu Ran closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was no excitement in them. No hope rising too quickly. Only decision.
"I'd like to see it," he said.
Lin Yuan inclined his head. He did not ask for permission. He did not wake the mother. He did not touch the boy.
The room did not change.
End of Chapter 7