"Lin Aunty, how do you manage to mop the floor like you're leading a royal parade? I honestly can't deal with you."
It was 7:30 in the morning. The cleaning crew had just wrapped up the handover meeting, and Su Rui—bucket in one hand, cloth in the other—was gliding down the corridor like she was on a runway.
Without missing a beat, she replied, "Professionalism. Ever heard of aesthetic movement planning?"
"That's called delusional movement planning," Xiao Dai snorted behind her.
Another older cleaner chimed in, "Yesterday you claimed you were a paper fairy. Today you say you can control light. Why not go star in a fantasy drama?"
"Been there. Won awards." Su Rui said matter-of-factly.
Everyone paused. Then burst out laughing.
They were used to this version of "Lin Aunty" now. What started as suspicion had evolved into something closer to affection.
Sure, she was weird—but funny and dependable. That was enough.
Today's assignment: deep clean the public meeting rooms.
Su Rui was humming show music as she polished the windows, turning occasionally like she was still rehearsing for a spotlight. But halfway through, a searing cramp gripped her stomach—sharp, acidic, and rising.
She froze.
Then bent over, knees buckling.
"Lin Aunty, are you okay?" Xiao Dai ran over.
"Maybe… bad lunch," she muttered, face pale.
She staggered into the breakroom, bracing herself on the sink, dry heaving. Nothing came out but acid. Her throat burned.
In the mirror, her reflection looked like a ghost. Colorless. Hollow.
This body, she thought, is trying to tell me something.
She took the rest of the day off and went back to the dorm.
The tin medicine box Lin Aunty left behind was still tucked in the corner, the crooked label reading "Take two if stomach hurts."
Inside were yellowed pills, a few notes, and a folded-up hospital slip.
She opened it carefully:
Department of Gastroenterology – Acid Reflux / Chronic Ulcer – Return in 3 weeks.
If symptoms worsen, consider endoscopy.
Su Rui stared at the print, her fingers trembling slightly.
Not because the words were frightening—she didn't need a doctor to know this wasn't just "stomach pain."
What frightened her was how familiar this all felt.
Like her body remembered before her mind did.
That evening, Xiao Dai knocked with two cups of iced mung bean soup.
"Here. You scared me today. You were whiter than the dorm wall."
Su Rui gave a tired smile. "I'll try to live up to wallpaper standards."
They sat side by side on the stone steps outside. The sunset stretched their shadows across the ground.
Xiao Dai hesitated, then asked, "Hey… did you really have a kid before?"
Su Rui turned, startled.
"When you first joined the company, we had a staff dinner. You got a little drunk and said you had a baby when you were young. That you… gave her away after birth."
Su Rui's mind went blank. Her fingertips went cold.
"I said that?"
"Kind of. You were crying a lot. I only remember one line:
'I just hope she lives better than I ever did.'"
The words sank into her chest like a heavy stone.
She didn't know why it hurt so much.
Didn't know where the sudden tightness in her throat came from.
All she knew was—her stomach began to ache again.
Not a sharp pain, but a deep, persistent one.
As if something was quietly growing, settling inside her, pressing against her voice, her thoughts—her whole being.
She tightened her grip on the soup cup. Said nothing.
In that moment, she didn't care who she really was.
She just wanted to know:
How much time does this body have left?