Hoofbeats break through the thin morning mist all the way,
only coming to an abrupt halt before the gates of the Liu residence.

The silver-gray form clutched tightly in her arms is already soaked through.
As Liu Xiyu steps down from the saddle, her footing nearly fails her.

She staggers forward, rushing into the central courtyard,
the sound forced from her throat, hoarse—almost a shout:

“Physician… find a physician…”

Mother Liu has already been waiting beneath the corridor eaves.**
At the sound, she steps forward—and blood is immediately visible in Liu Xiyu’s arms.

“Take Snowball to the warm chamber—quick!”

She turns at once, instructing the maids beside her to open the doors and lead the way.

Yun Cangyue is rushed into the warm chamber of the eastern wing of the main house.

The room faces the sun.
Charcoal braziers are already burning,
with clean cotton quilts and the medicine chest laid out in readiness.

Only when Liu Xiyu sets the silver fur in her arms down upon the bed
does she truly realize how light it is—

light as a paper kite soaked through by rain,
liable to be scattered by the slightest wind.

Her fingers tremble as she lifts the bandages beneath the fur.
One torn bloodstain after another comes into view—
blood that has crusted over, only to seep out again,
like traces of something repeatedly breaking down from within.

She bites down on her lower lip.
In the end, she still cannot hold it back—
tears fall soundlessly onto the fur.

Mother Liu stands to the side.
Seeing her shoulders trembling, she is just about to reach out in comfort—
when she suddenly catches sight of a dark red patch on the sleeve of her right shoulder.

“You’re injured too?”

Liu Xiyu freezes for a beat.
Instinctively, she lifts her arm.
The fabric there has been slashed open,
and through the tear, varying shades of blood are faintly visible.

Mother Liu frowns and steps closer to take a look.

“You can’t keep leaving it like this.
If it gets infected, it’ll leave a scar.
Quick—have someone deal with it.”

“No… I want to stay here with her…”

Her voice is low and hoarse,
the tone nearly lost—
only stubbornness and pleading left, tangled together.

Seeing that she won’t yield, Mother Liu has no choice but to persuade her softly.

“Be good now. There are people here to watch over her.
You should go—”

“Liu’er.”

A voice comes from outside the door,
carrying a chill like thin frost.

Father Liu strides in, his expression composed,
his gaze not wavering as it rests on his daughter
and the silver-gray rabbit on the bed.

“If you truly want what’s best for Snowball,
then you should know what needs to be done.”

Liu Xiyu’s body gives a slight jolt.
Her fingers curl tightly into a fist.

After pressing her lips together for a long moment,
she finally answers in a low voice,
“Father, Mother… I understand.”

Father Liu says nothing more.
He only gives instructions over his shoulder:

“Have Physician Zhou treat the rabbit.
Summon Healer Lin to tend to Liu’er.”

With that, he turns and leaves—
as silent as an order already given.

Liu Xiyu is half guided, half urged toward the side hall.

It sits near the rear courtyard,
squarely facing the corridor corner’s wind-gap;
cold air slips in behind the curtain,
paring the charcoal’s warmth down to almost nothing.

Only a single layer of old cloth curtain hangs in the room.
When it sways, silhouettes appear faintly through it—
enough to block the view, but not the medicinal stench and the metallic tang of blood filling the space.

A young maid carefully helps her sit.
Her robe clings to the bloodstains, too stuck to be undone.
The scissors cut gently along the torn seam;
as the fabric parts, a faint tearing sound follows.

Her body stays rigid—but not from pain—

her gaze never leaving the half-closed door,
as if through scent and footsteps alone,
she might piece together her breathing.

—Are they changing the dressing again?
—Has the fever gone down yet?
—Is she… still able to gasp?

“This wound isn’t very deep.”

Healer Lin’s voice comes from behind the screen, calm and even.

“But if it gets infected, it may leave a scar.”

Liu Xiyu does not respond.
Her teeth clamp down hard, as if biting back a regret that should never be spoken.

As the medicinal powder is sprinkled over the wound, it flushes faintly red.
Pain spreads beneath the skin—
yet she seems not to feel it at all,
only tightening her grip on the fabric at her side.

Not until the bandaging is finished,
and a maid drapes a clean outer robe over her shoulders,
does she move at all.

The moment the curtain is pushed aside,
cold wind sweeps over her face.

Father Liu stands beneath the corridor eaves.

His hands are folded behind his back.
At his feet lies a single frost-frozen plum blossom petal.
His gaze falls straight upon her.

There is no anger in it—
yet it feels as heavy as the shadow of the entire family,
pressing down upon her shoulders inch by inch.

“You always send the household guards away whenever you go out.”

His tone is unhurried,
each word sounding as though it has been carefully weighed.

“You’ve already paid the price for your recklessness.
I will say no more on that.”

“If it hadn’t been Snowball,
that arrow would not have merely grazed your shoulder.”

“I will have the finest physician see to her.”

He pauses.
Each word falls like a placed stone,
each sound striking the heartstring.

“I’m telling you this only so you understand—”

“What the surname Liu truly means.”

With that, he turns and leaves.
His pace is not fast,
yet each step sounds clearly as it falls.

She remains where she is.
Wind passes in from the far end of the corridor,
stirring the hair at her temples slightly out of place.

Only when the scent of charcoal fire begins to fade
does she finally move,
turning her steps toward the warm chamber.

As she reaches to push the door,
the lamps inside are still lit.

Mother Liu stands in one corner of the warm chamber,
a handkerchief clenched in her hand,
her gaze never wavering.

She does not step closer—only remains in quiet vigil,
not speaking, not interfering,
afraid that even a single footstep
might disturb a breath hanging by a thread.

Liu Xiyu walks up and reaches out to lightly support her mother at the elbow,
angling her body to block the gently wavering candlelight.

“Mother, go and rest for a while.
I’ll stay here.”

Mother Liu pauses for a moment.
Seeing her daughter with reddened eyes, yet forcing herself to remain composed,
she finally nods, gives a few instructions, and only then leaves.

Just before she goes, she deliberately adds half a brazier of charcoal.

The room settles back into silence.

Liu Xiyu stands to the side,
watching as maids brings in fresh water,
then carries out another basin of water stained red.

Fine strands of silver fur float in the water, along with threads of blood stirred loose.

She has long since lost count of how many basins it has been.

Time is like frost and snow that will not melt.

Not until a thin streak of light,
reflected by the lichen along the window lattice,
slants across the edge of the bed curtains
does the physician finally, slowly rise,
lifting a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Liu Xiyu steps forward sharply, her voice wavering just a touch.

“Physician… how is she?”

Physician Zhou is advanced in years,
yet his eyes remain sharp.

He gives her a single look,
his voice gentle, yet weighted.

“Miss, I have done all I can.
What follows… is no longer in human hands.”

“The situation then was perilous.
Her prior injuries, combined with blood loss,
had already left her breath as thin as a thread.”

“It was only through a drastic remedy
that we managed to draw back this one breath.”

Liu Xiyu’s eyes redden at once, but she does not let the tears fall.
She only bites down on her lip and asks:

“Is it truly… that nothing more can be done?”

Physician Zhou considers for a moment,
his voice lowering slightly.

“Miss, you may try… speaking with her.”

“When one lingers between waking and sleep,
sometimes a single thought, a single tether,
can draw one back from death.“

She nods,
and personally sees the physician out.

Back at the bedside,
only now—after all the chaos—
does she, for the first time,
truly see.

The one she once carried back in her arms from the rear hills—
the companion who, without her noticing,
had been by her side for two full years—
now lies quietly atop the thick fur quilt,
its entire body tightly wrapped in bandages.

Apart from the head, where its outline is still visible,
everything else is bound with bandages and wooden splints—

forelegs and hind legs both broken,
the torso wrapped in two layers,
fur missing in multiple places,
its skin dried and fissured, like leaf veins long split by the wind.

She steps closer,
her gaze moving inch by inch across its wounds.

“Ayue…”

She calls in a low voice,
reaching out—
her fingertips just about to touch the base of its ear,
then stopping short.

Only the soft crackle of the brazier remains in the air.

Her hand lingers in midair,
then suddenly drops,
as if the strength holding it there has given way.

Her hand hangs suspended,
then drops, as if suddenly weightless.

“I’m sorry…”

The words barely make a sound,
as if pressed out from the deepest part of her chest.

At last, the tears fall—
one drop, then another,
striking the bed linen.

There is no sobbing,
only the soft sound of drops falling onto cloth.

She is afraid of startling her awake—
and even more afraid…
that she will never be able to wake her again.

The physician’s words echo again and again in her mind—

     Try speaking to her…
     sometimes a single thought, a single tether, can draw one back from death. (Click to vote)

She rises in silence and moves toward the inner cabinet,
drawing out from the very bottom a small box wrapped tightly shut.

It is something she has always kept close,
yet has never once spoken of to anyone.

Even she cannot say
why she remembers it being kept here.

The moment her fingertips touch the lid,
a distant, blurred echo seems to slip through a fissure in time—

light spring rain,
grass by the stream,
rabbit tracks,
and a laugh left unfinished.

She opens the box, takes out the small object within,
and turns back toward the bedside.

Yun Cangyue is like a still life.

Gently, the item is placed beside the pillow.

“Ayue…”

“Do you remember?”

Her voice is light as a feather.

“This was… when we went out together…”

She does not finish the sentence,
only reaches out, gently brushing a small tuft of fur at the tip of its ear.

Leaning against the bedside,
knees drawn up,
she buries her face between them.

The glow of the brazier flickers across the floor;
shadows on the wall sway at times,
and at others fall still.

And so she keeps watch,
wordless through the night.

Not leaving even as dawn quietly appears,
as water begins to drip from the eaves.

Wishing only that such a small thing
might hold onto a fragment of memory,
and draw her back from the depths.

—even if only a trace.