Hua Jing… Hua Jing…
The voice was so faint it felt like wind brushing past her ear. Soft. Fragile. Almost not there at all.
Hua Jing stirred.
Her lashes fluttered. She blinked into the dim golden light, confusion fogging her mind. Was she back? Back in that white room in her world? Was that soft, steady beep of machines calling to her again?
But no.
The scent here was warm sandalwood, not antiseptic. She wasn't beneath fluorescent lights. She was still in that familiar chamber—ancient and quiet, where time moved differently.
And when she turned her head, he was still there.
Zhao Yan.
Still. Pale. His face ashen against the embroidered pillow.
She inhaled sharply, tears threatening her peace. A month had passed since he had fallen, pierced by an arrow meant to end everything. A month since physicians rushed in with empty words and no hope. A month since he had opened his eyes.
And still, he lay there.
Breathing. Barely.
Alive. But somewhere far away.
