Siheyuan: tomb robbing? I am serious about hunting.

Chapter 1058: Tired

Shen Zhiyi was standing at the ward door, tightening the lid of her thermos when the scent of disinfectant from the flower season reached her nostrils. The stainless steel buckle made a soft click, startling the green ivy in the hallway into shedding a leaf. For three months, that sound had become her biological clock—every morning at 7:05, she would appear here, a thermos filled with pork rib soup. The head nurse at the nurses' station patted her shoulder as she passed by. "Mr. Fu looks good today. He was just basking in the sun on the bay window." Shen Zhiyi nodded, her fingertips leaving red marks on the handle of the thermos. Ever since she collapsed from a fever on the street that day and was rushed to this hospital, she hadn't been able to properly look Fu Shiyan in the eye again. The moment she pushed open the ward door, sunlight poured out like molten gold, streaming across the floor in a river. Fu Shiyan sat by the bay window, his blue and white striped hospital gown looking empty, the collar hanging loose, revealing a new scar on his collarbone—the pinhole mark left by the emergency treatment during the rejection attack last month. He had lost a lot of weight, and the contours of his face looked even sharper in the light, his jawline taut, as if it had been carefully carved with a chisel. The sunlight filtered through the glass, weaving a golden net over him, enveloping him entirely, but it couldn't dispel the faint sense of alienation that surrounded him. "The doctor said you're recovering well." Shen Zhiyi placed the thermos on the bedside table, the soft sound of the ceramic cup hitting the tabletop being particularly clear in the silence. Her voice was still a little stilted, as if she hadn't spoken in a long time. After the argument in the rainstorm that day, she was rushed to the hospital and diagnosed with severe stress disorder. For a full half month, she alternated between sleep and nightmares, and when she woke, she always felt like there was a ball of cotton stuck in her throat. Fu Shiyan didn't look back, but just stared at the newly opened lily of the valley outside the window. The flowerpot was placed on the windowsill. She had brought it last week. The white petals were piled up layer upon layer, like snow piled on the branches. His fingers were placed on the windowsill, his knuckles whitened from the force. The sunlight shone on the back of his hand, and the blue veins were clearly visible. "Zhiyi, let's talk." His voice was very soft, as if he was afraid of disturbing the butterflies outside the window, but with a firmness that could not be refused. Shen Zhiyi's heart skipped a beat. She knew that what was coming would come, but she didn't expect it to come so soon. For the past three months, they were like two cautious hedgehogs, maintaining a delicate balance in the small space of the ward - she made soup every day, and he drank it silently; she wiped his body, and he closed his eyes and didn't speak; she read picture books to him, and his eyelashes would tremble slightly when he heard Monet's water lilies. She thought that such days could last a little longer, long enough for her to find a suitable way to face the muddy past between them. "I've submitted my resignation." Fu Shiyan's gaze remained fixed on Linglan, his voice as calm as if he were discussing someone else's business. "I'll be transferred to the UK branch next month, and I won't be in front of you again." The pork rib soup in the thermos was still steaming, the lingering vapor blurring Shen Zhiyi's vision. Her fingers, however, were icy cold, as if they'd just been pulled from icy water. Her nails dug deep into her palm, the pain bringing her a slight sense of clarity. "Fu Shiyan," she heard her voice tremble, each word coming out between her teeth. "Do you think this will make up for everything?" He finally turned his head, the sunlight falling squarely into his eyes, his pupils dusted with tiny gold dust. But beneath that gold lay an indelible weariness, like a lake covered in dust, no longer reflecting its former brilliance. The scar beneath his left brow glowed a pale pink in the sunlight, a wound left at fifteen years old that now seemed like an unhealable chasm. "What else?" He smiled, but the curve of his mouth did not reach his eyes. "Watching you live in guilt every day, treating me like a creditor? Or letting you continue to hate me, hating me for deceiving you for three years?" His fingertips tapped lightly on the windowsill, making a regular sound, as if he was keeping the rhythm of his own words. "Zhiyi, I'm tired." These three words hit Shen Zhiyi's heart like a heavy hammer. She remembered three years ago in the intensive care unit, when the nurse said that his rejection reaction was the most serious, he had not slept for three days and three nights, but he always held tightly to the ginkgo picture she drew; she remembered that after he was discharged from the hospital, in order to return to work as soon as possible, he endured the pain to do rehabilitation every day, and his sweat-soaked shirt could be wrung out water; she remembered that he was obviously afraid of the dark, but every time she had a nightmare, he would sit quietly by her bedside until dawn. He was indeed tired. But how could she let him go? Shen Zhiyi suddenly rushed over and hugged him, her movements as fast as a gust of wind. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her nose rubbing against his protruding collarbone, and she could smell the mixed scent of disinfectant and sunshine on him. This embrace was much thinner than she remembered. Through the thin hospital gown, she could clearly feel the shape of his spine. "You are not allowed to leave." Her voice was filled with tears, and her tears rushed out, wetting his hospital gown. "Fu Shiyan, you are not allowed to leave. Let's atone for our sins together, okay?" The word "atonement" made Fu Shiyan's body stiffen suddenly. He raised his hand, as if he wanted to push her away, but when his fingertips touched her trembling shoulders, he dropped it weakly. "I don't need you to atone for your sins." His voice was hoarse, a barely perceptible sob in it. "Zhiyi, I've never blamed you." "But I blame myself!" Shen Zhiyi cried, burying her face deeper into her chest. "Every day I think, if I hadn't jaywalked that day, if I hadn't gotten that disease, if I had found your diagnosis sooner..." "There are no ifs," Fu Shiyan interrupted, his voice tinged with tired tenderness. "Zhiyi, life isn't like painting; you can't erase and start over." He finally raised his hand and gently wrapped it around her back. His movements were awkward and awkward, as if he hadn't done such a thing in a long time. His palm, with its familiar warmth, filtered through the thin fabric, ironing her cold skin. "Remember your fifteenth birthday?" Fu Shiyan's voice echoed in her ear, tinged with distant nostalgia. "You said you'd plant lilies of the valley in the yard and marry me when they bloomed." Shen Zhiyi paused in her tears. Of course she remembered. It was a sunny day, and the stitches on his forehead had just been removed, and a bandage still covered it. She held up the newly drawn wedding invitation, on which their names were written crookedly, with a background of lily of the valley in full bloom. "I told you to buy flower seedlings after your injury healed." She sniffed, her voice muffled, "But then you transferred to another school, and then..." Then her mother passed away, and she became ill, and everything changed beyond recognition. "Then I bought lily of the valley seeds." Fu Shiyan's fingers gently stroked her hair,