The villagers turned as one.
Every pair of eyes widened.
Lin Che was standing there.
Only minutes ago, she had collapsed in hysteria, her body trembling uncontrollably. Yet now she stood upright at the end of the corridor, steady—too steady. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a harsh glow over her figure, and in that light she looked almost unreal.
Her face was the same.
But everything else was not.
Her skin had turned unnaturally pale, so pale it seemed to glow faintly against the sterile white walls. The warmth that usually lived in her expression was gone. Her eyes—those once bright, gentle eyes—had darkened into something unfathomable. There was no visible tear now, no frantic desperation.
Only stillness.
A suffocating, oppressive stillness.
Nan Lu was the first to react. She hurried over, placing a hand gently on Lin Che's arm.
"Cheche," she said softly, trying to sound calm though her own voice trembled, "you should lie down a little longer. The doctor said you need rest. We'll handle everything here."
The village chief nodded solemnly. "Yes. Don't worry about anything. We'll take care of the arrangements. If there's anything you need to know, we'll tell you."
But Lin Che did not look at them.
It was as if their voices could not reach her.
Her gaze remained fixed on Auntie Lee.
"Repeat what you said," she said quietly.
The tone was low.
Flat.
It carried no visible emotion—yet it made the air feel heavier.
Auntie Lee shifted uneasily. For some reason, facing this Lin Che felt entirely different from facing the girl she had known all her life. There was something pressing against her chest, something that made breathing slightly harder.
"What… what do you mean?" Auntie Lee stammered.
Lin Che took a slow step forward.
"What did that woman do to my grandmother?"
The words were clear now.
Each syllable distinct.
The corridor fell silent.
Auntie Lee swallowed. She had already spoken those words once before, but now they felt far more dangerous to repeat.
"When I went to your house," she began hesitantly, "I saw the woman from the Gong family—the one who took Gong Rui away before. She was leaving… with several men."
She wrung her hands nervously.
"When I entered, your grandma was already… already in that state. There was blood everywhere. And one of the men… he had blood dripping from his hands."
A pause.
"I can't be certain, but… I believe they were responsible."
Silence followed.
Then—
Lin Che chuckled.
It was soft.
But it was wrong.
The sound did not belong in a hospital corridor. It did not belong in grief.
It was dark.
Low.
As if something buried deep inside her had just opened its eyes.
Several villagers instinctively stepped back.
The temperature in the corridor seemed to drop abruptly.
One of the older men whispered under his breath, "Is it just me… or did it suddenly get colder?"
Another nodded slowly. "I felt it too."
Nan Lu frowned at them. "How could she not change? Her grandmother just died. Of course she's different."
The others quickly agreed, clinging to the rational explanation.
Yes.
That had to be it.
Grief.
Shock.
Nothing more.
At that moment, a nurse approached, breaking the tension.
"Is there any family member of the deceased?" she asked gently. "We need someone to sign the paperwork before transferring the body to the morgue."
"I am," Lin Che replied immediately.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
She stepped forward without hesitation.
The villagers watched her back as she followed the nurse down the corridor. None of them spoke. A strange unease lingered long after she disappeared around the corner.
The hallway they entered was dimmer, quieter. The hum of machines grew faint. This part of the hospital was colder—reserved for endings rather than hope.
The nurse handed her several forms.
"You need to sign here and here," she explained softly. "If you wish to see her one last time before we prepare the body… I can take you in."
Lin Che's hand did not tremble as she held the pen.
"I want to see her," she said.
The nurse nodded.
They walked in silence.
The small preparation room was stark and sterile. A single narrow bed stood in the center. Upon it lay a still figure covered entirely in a clean white sheet.
The nurse paused at the doorway. "You only have a few minutes."
Lin Che nodded.
"Thank you."
When the door closed behind her, the silence deepened.
She took one step.
Then another.
The cold in the room seeped into her bones, but she did not shiver. Her eyes never left the figure on the bed.
It still didn't feel real.
This morning, her grandmother had been standing in their kitchen, scolding her gently about the cold weather. This morning, she had been smiling.
How could a single day split a life in half so completely?
Her parents had died when she was too young to remember their faces. She had grown up with only stories of them, fragments of memories that weren't even her own. After their deaths, relatives had refused to take her in. No one wanted another burden.
No one except her grandmother.
Her grandmother had opened her small home and even smaller savings to raise her. She had endured hardship without complaint, had worked beyond her limits until sickness stole her strength. Even then, she had never once made Lin Che feel like a burden.
That was why Lin Che worked so hard.
Why she accepted every odd job.
Why she pushed herself beyond exhaustion.
Because she wanted to give her grandmother the best medicine.
Because she believed there was still time.
She reached the bedside.
Her fingers hovered over the white sheet.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Then she slowly pulled it down.
And saw her face.
"Grandma…"
The word shattered.
Her grandmother's face was unnaturally still. Bruises marred the fragile skin. Even in death, traces of pain remained etched into her features.
Lin Che's breath hitched violently.
All the restraint, all the unnatural calm, broke in an instant.
"Grandma!"