The bathroom door creaked softly as Jian stepped out, his skin pale and damp, his frame swaddled in an old towel.
The bath had left his wounds clean but had done little to soothe the ache. He groaned softly with each step holding the wall for support. He changed into the old godl crusted shirt and pant and walked over to the bed.
The old man stood quietly by the edge of the small room, watching with eyes that had seen more grief than joy. He didn't speak. He simply reached out and helped Jian into the bed, his touch rough but cautious. Jian didn't protest.
He curled in under the thin blanket like a child seeking warmth. His body finally allowed itself to surrender, to rest. Within minutes, he was asleep, his chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.
