The approved meeting was arranged in the police station's special visitation room.
"I'm ready," Lin Tingchao said softly.
Zhu Qing nodded and opened the door to the room.
The heavy iron door creaked open with a nerve-wracking metallic screech. In that instant, countless memories of the basement flooded Lin Tingchao's mind.
Once, she had practiced dance in that basement, surrounded by mirrors that reflected her every move—her most devoted audience. But later, those enclosing mirrors became a cage. Under Kuang Xiaoyan's triumphant taunts, she had been powerless to fight back, as if utterly trapped within the glass.
When the two "Lin Tingchao" locked eyes, the air itself seemed to freeze.
Kuang Xiaoyan sat in the chair. Over the years, she had poured endless effort into mimicking Lin Tingchao—her hairstyle, makeup, speech, even the subtlest expressions and the way her shoulders swayed when she walked. With the help of skilled plastic surgeons, she should have been nearly identical—if not for Lin Tingchao's gaunt, haggard appearance now, they might have been indistinguishable.
When Lin Tingchao had requested this meeting, she said there were things she needed to ask face-to-face. Perhaps she had intended to question the hesitation of her "parents" at the start of the scheme, or how they planned to deal with her in the end—would they imprison her forever? Those questions had once tormented her, gnawing at her mind in sleepless nights. But now, sitting across from Kuang Xiaoyan and seeing the turmoil in her eyes, she suddenly found none of it mattered anymore.
"Do you remember Rong Zimei?" Lin Tingchao spoke abruptly.
Kuang Xiaoyan and Lin Tingchao’s fates had been tightly entwined for seven years, passing through many phases.
The first phase: Kuang Xiaoyan discovered a dazzling new world, watching Lin Tingchao dance gracefully on stage, idolizing the radiant girl, dreaming she might one day stand beside her.
The second phase: She practiced dance, English, etiquette, and poise in an old Kowloon apartment, simmering with resentment—why must she waste years waiting just for a chance to be a stand-in? She was already good enough.
The third phase: She officially replaced Lin Tingchao, watching the former swan locked in the basement, her toes no longer able to point. With hatred now directed at a tangible target, Kuang Xiaoyan’s mind had long twisted. She even began to relish the thrill of controlling another’s fate—at least then, she was on top.
And now, the final phase: She thought their positions had reversed again. Even if Lin Weizong and Mai Shuxian were convicted, Lin Tingchao would still inherit the Lin family’s fortune… Yet Lin Tingchao had just mentioned Rong Zimei.
How could Kuang Xiaoyan forget Rong Zimei?
That plain, plump cousin who always wore faded plaid shirts, too timid to meet anyone’s gaze. Every time Kuang Xiaoyan couldn’t resist boasting, Rong Zimei would grab her wrist with rough hands and urge her to stay grounded.
Kuang Xiaoyan had claimed Rong Zimei was jealous of her becoming a true swan.
But now, the words from Lin Tingchao’s lips were absurd.
Kuang Xiaoyan thought she misheard, even lip-reading to confirm.
"In the end, it turned out Rong Zimei was the real heiress."
Lin Tingchao had learned this truth from the police and now relayed it calmly. In this cruel joke of fate, she wasn’t the only one to suffer.
"What did you say?"
"The police confirmed it. Rong Zimei is the Lin family’s true daughter."
As expected, Kuang Xiaoyan’s pupils shrank, her face draining of color, her expression twisting into something feral.
Her face contorted as she screamed, lurching up only to be yanked back into the chair by her handcuffs, metal clanging against the table.
Collapsing back, her body trembled violently. The carefully crafted mimicry in her expression crumbled piece by piece. From age sixteen until now, seven whole years—she, too, had been shackled by obsession.
As Lin Tingchao turned to leave, she heard stifled sobs behind her, mingled with broken curses and gasps.
The iron door of the visitation room shut again, sealing away all sound. For a moment, she felt as if she were sprinting up the basement’s narrow stairs once more, turning back at the top to see sunlight barred by the heavy door. All noise vanished, as if everything had been an illusion.
"Start over," Zhu Qing said. "Lin Tingchao."
Lin Tingchao turned back, her gaze settling on Zhu Qing’s face.
Her eyes were lost. "I’m not Lin Tingchao. Then who am I?"
She had asked herself this countless times in sleepless nights, each answer different. But after seeing the DNA report, her life felt like a cruel joke—she no longer had an answer.
"You are Lin Tingchao," Zhu Qing said. "Just not the daughter of Lin Weizong, Mai Shuxian, or even Feng Ningyun."
The name was so familiar, yet it felt tangled now. But none of it mattered anymore—it could all stay in the past. This officer told her that if she wished, she could still begin anew.
Faint voices and footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway—fragments of ordinary life, both familiar and strange to her.
The bail procedures were complete. Outside, Shen Jingyang leaned against the corridor wall.
Seeing Lin Tingchao emerge, he straightened instinctively but didn’t rush forward.
His eyes lingered on her right foot, as if worried prolonged standing might hinder her wound’s healing.
Lin Tingchao looked at Zhu Qing.
This Madam spoke little, but her gaze was steady.
Lin Tingchao’s eyes reddened slightly as she nodded.
"Let’s go home," she said, turning to Shen Jingyang.
The moment the words left her lips, it felt as if a thousand-pound weight had lifted.
Shen Jingyang paused, then quickly stepped forward to support her arm.
Side by side, they walked slowly down the police station’s long hallway, their footsteps intermingling, their figures gradually receding.
"Zhu Qing!"
Zeng Yongshan peeked out from the CID office. "Hurry back and order afternoon tea! Today, no one goes easy on Weng Zhaolin!"
Her voice was brimming with energy. As she finished speaking, she even jogged over to pull Zhu Qing’s hand.
The office erupted in rowdy cheers.
"Pineapple bun with condensed milk—"
"Weng Zhaolin, can we get lobster noodles?"
"Are you daft? Since when does the downstairs café serve lobster noodles?"
"Fine, beef chow fun then—but double the beef! Weng Zhaolin, that’s not too much to ask, right?"
Standing at the doorway, Zhu Qing couldn’t help but laugh along with them.
The clamor had, at some point, become a part of her daily life and work.
Vivid and real.
...
In the office, colleagues gathered in a lively circle to order afternoon tea.
The takeout menu passed from hand to hand, nearly half the items already checked off. Weng Zhaolin stood at the periphery, waving cheerfully whenever he met his subordinates’ expectant glances.
"What’s there to ask?" he said magnanimously. "The case is closed—of course we should celebrate. Order whatever you want."
As he turned away, he shot Mo Zhenbang a meaningful look that unmistakably said—
Look at these ravenous ghosts you’ve raised.
These young people ate like they’d been starved for lifetimes. Weng Zhaolin, being their superior—and one who lived in a villa in Repulse Bay—could only grit his teeth and bear it, though internally, his wallet was weeping.
Logically, Mo Zhenbang should’ve reined them in. But he pretended not to notice Weng’s silent plea, hands clasped behind his back as he hummed the latest pop hit.
The office, now in the case-closing phase, was piled high with files and documents, leaving even the walkways cramped.
After placing their orders, colleagues settled into their cluttered workspaces, still discussing the case.
"Honestly, the best outcome is that no one died."
"Earlier, Shen Jingyang’s parents came with their lawyer to handle bail. They kept asking about Lin Tingchao—how she was doing… They seemed like reasonable people. And Shen Jingyang’s got a strong will. If Lin Tingchao’s willing, they might have a fresh start."
"In that case, even though Lin Tingchao lost her status as the Lin family heiress, it might’ve been a kind of liberation. All things considered, the ending’s pretty satisfying."
"Satisfying?" Uncle Li set down his thermos and shook his head. "Don’t forget—Lin Tingchao can never dance again."
Unlike Feng Ningyun, Lin Tingchao had genuinely loved dancing.
In the case timeline, one photo stood out: Lin Tingchao at a dance competition, her posture poised, toes pointed, eyes alight with brilliance. A moment frozen in time—one that would never be repeated.
Little Sun sat at his computer, archiving every piece of evidence, even including that off-key rendition of "Moonlight, Shining Bright."
"Funny how Rong Zimei came to the police with that same nursery rhyme, and her birth mother in Sai Kung was humming it too."
"Who hasn’t heard that song? Every kid in Hong Kong grew up with it." Xu Jiale immediately began singing, "Moonlight, shining bright… lighting up the ground…"
"Stop, stop!" Zeng Yongshan dramatically covered her ears. "That tune gives me the creeps now."
"So who came out on top in this case?"
"If we’re talking winners…" Xu Jiale counted on his fingers. "Kuang Xiaoyan got to live as a rich girl for years—went all out shopping when we tailed her."
"Lin Tingchao got the worst of it—plummeting from the heavens and suffering for no reason. But at least she’s not left with nothing. She and Shen Jingyang found love in the end. That’s some consolation."
"Rong Zimei’s about to become filthy rich… talk about a turnaround."
"She’ll actually get the money?"
"As long as Feng Ningyun’s alive, it’s just a DNA test away. Poor for twenty-odd years… then suddenly inheriting a fortune? At least her mom’s medical bills are covered."
"Rong Zimei’s got a conscience, though. Chen Yulan really did raise her like her own daughter all these years."
As they spoke, they noticed Weng Zhaolin and Mo Zhenbang in the corner, locked in another tense standoff.
Weng’s voice was low but firm: "The inspector’s exam rumors have been circulating forever. I put your name in first. If you skip it again, I’m done pushing you."
Zhu Qing kept her head down, organizing reports.
Thankfully, her little guardian wasn’t here. If Sheng Fang were around, he’d puff out his chest and declare—
I’ll take it!
She stacked the papers neatly.
ᶜʰᵘⁿʳⁱ
This case was like that discordant nursery rhyme—every twist hitting without warning.
But nursery rhymes always reach their final note.
Just like this case. No matter how convoluted, the thick stack of files would eventually bear the red stamp: Closed.
...
Two days before departure, on a weekend, little Sheng Fang became Zhu Qing’s shadow, clinging to her every step.
Whenever they went out, he carried his backpack stuffed with toys and candy—
The boy took good care of himself.
The mountain of paperwork felt heavier than the staggering medical fees. Little tycoon Fangfang handled the payments, while Zhu Qing mused that money truly could buy comfort—like this sliver of hope.
A pen twirled between her fingers as Zhu Qing studied the high-risk transfer consent form, hovering over the signature line.
"The hospital must reiterate—international transfer carries significant risks," Director Luo adjusted his glasses. "We cannot guarantee any outcomes."
Sheng Fang shoved his hands in his pockets, chin jutting defiantly. "Why say that now?"
Zhu Qing signed her name.
Hand in hand with the boy, she approached the hospital room where nurses were finalizing checks.
Leaning against the cold wall, Zhu Qing reread the materials Cheng Xinglang had prepared.
Sheng Fang rose on tiptoes.
The Berlin Neurology Center was renowned for its rigorous rehabilitation data—publicly available, along with surgical case studies. The jargon might as well have been hieroglyphics to them both.
With a soft click, the door opened.
A nurse nodded gently. "You may go in."
Their footsteps faded down the hall, reminiscent of years past—when Madam Sheng would gaze silently out the window, clutching that dark green notebook. "My daughter’s story is in here," she’d say. Now, her daughter stood holding her hand, making the hardest choice of her life.
The footsteps vanished completely as Sheng Fang shut the door.
Zhu Qing clasped Sheng Peirong’s hand.
A month ago, they’d seen her fingers twitch. Her palm was warm, her breathing steady—yet she couldn’t move. Zhu Qing knew: if her mother were awake, she’d gamble on that 30% chance. So she signed the consent.
"Are you afraid?" Zhu Qing whispered.
No answer came from the bed.
Suddenly, Sheng Fang placed his small hand on top of hers.
His chubby little hand was warm, like a tiny heating pad.
"Our Qing is a little scared," Sheng Fang said to his unconscious elder sister. "Don’t make her worry anymore."
"Big Sis, you have to wake up soon."
"We’ll play Monopoly 2 together. I’ll let you pick Madame Qian first—you’ll like her."
Aunt Ping had said his elder sister was a strong woman.
Madame Qian was the same—so shrewd and sharp.
"Qing, will Big Sis let me play games?" Sheng Fang suddenly considered this problem.
Once his elder sister woke up, he wouldn’t be the only adult in the house anymore.
This was a serious matter.
"Qing has to help me!" he said in his childish voice.
Zhu Qing gently tapped the tip of his nose.
This little one always knew just how to chase away the gloom.
The stifling atmosphere in the hospital room dissipated. Zhu Qing’s frantic heartbeat steadied as she took deep breaths.
Just as Little Fang had said—relax.
By the time they returned to the police station, it was dusk. The CID office buzzed like a marketplace.
Weng Zhaolin turned a blind eye, and everyone tacitly pretended he had closed both eyes, running wild in his absence.
Zhu Qing arrived with Sheng Fang to wrap up the final handover. Xu Jiale and Hao Zai clamored for souvenirs, rattling off a long list of demands before Uncle Li snatched it away.
"They’re going for serious business," Uncle Li grumbled.
"Fine, forget the rest, but bring back some rum chocolates…"
"Anyway, the celebration dinner won’t count you in this time. Rumor has it the boss’s wife is cooking—too bad you’ll miss out!"
"How about this—we’ll throw another party when you get back."
Beneath their carefree jokes lay genuine warmth.
"It’ll be okay," Zeng Yongshan reassured her with a pat on the shoulder. "Once the surgery succeeds, we’ll celebrate properly."
Mo Zhenbang added, "Don’t stress. Call us if you need anything."
"Wait—"
Zeng Yongshan hurried off, then reappeared as if performing a magic trick, holding an elegant gift box.
Inside was a camel-colored cashmere scarf, its tag still attached.
She held it up against Zhu Qing, testing the length.
The fabric felt as soft as clouds.
"It snows there," Zeng Yongshan said with a smile. "Take care of your mom—and yourself too."
Sheng Fang tilted his head up, watching his niece.
Their Qing was used to walking alone, keeping everyone’s concern at arm’s length. But this time was different. She thanked them quietly, as if something inside her was slowly thawing.
Then, he heard Zeng Yongshan say those familiar words again—
"We’re all family here."
……
Everyone understood what Zhu Qing was facing.
Having grown up alone, she had suddenly gained a mother. Before she could even experience maternal warmth, she was thrust into the weight of responsibility. Barely recovered from the case, she now carried another mountain on her shoulders, stumbling forward while Aunt Ping and Sheng Fang could offer only limited support.
By evening, the light in Zhu Qing’s room was on.
She spread out the medical documents, reviewing each one meticulously before reorganizing them by date, aligning the edges neatly.
Outside her door, Little Fang sat on the floor, leaning against the wall.
The young master hated slippers and loved plopping down anywhere. To protect his tiny feet and bottom, the living room was nearly carpeted—yet he always found the coldest corner to curl up in.
"Aunt Ping," Sheng Fang whispered, "was Big Sis really amazing before?"
Aunt Ping handed him a soft cushion to sit on while she continued folding clothes.
She was busy packing for Zhu Qing—Berlin’s chilly weather meant preparing for at least half a month. She wanted to shoulder as much as possible so Zhu Qing wouldn’t have to worry about trivialities.
"Of course she was amazing," Aunt Ping replied without pausing her work.
"Then she needs to get better fast and take care of Qing," Sheng Fang said solemnly. "Qing is too tired."
He peered into Zhu Qing’s room through the slightly ajar door, catching a glimpse of her slender frame.
His niece was grown up, but she still needed someone to lean on, a mother’s love. The little uncle fretted endlessly, wishing his elder sister would wake up soon and share the burden.
Aunt Ping chuckled helplessly. "Young Master, your elder sister is still in the hospital."
While his sister remained hospitalized, his niece was running herself ragged.
Sheng Fang worried about one, then the other.
Suddenly, he dashed off, returning moments later with a glass of warm water from the kitchen.
Waiting for his sister to recover and care for Qing? He might as well do it himself.
……
On their last day before departure, the young master of the Sheng family dragged his niece to the mall.
His tiny pockets held a bank card, and his stubby fingers kept handing it over. As a privileged VIP, he splurged on a mountain of items. Zeng Yongshan’s gift had inspired him—keeping warm was crucial. Qing couldn’t afford to fall sick while abroad.
"It’s not like I’m alone," Zhu Qing said. "There’s a whole medical team."
Little Fang and Aunt Ping always imagined her plight as far worse than it was.
Truthfully, she was used to bearing heavy loads.
She laughed. "Do I really seem that pitiful?"
Before she could finish, Sheng Fang stood on tiptoe, attempting to put sunglasses on her.
The little one was too short—the temple tips poked her cheek instead.
"It’s not a vacation," Zhu Qing said.
Yet she crouched slightly, letting him adjust the glasses anyway.
Sheng Fang beamed with satisfaction. "Our Qing looks even cooler now!"
All morning, he spent money like water.
And this time, Qing didn’t stop him—
"Buy it."
Little Sheng Fang knew his niece’s mind was elsewhere, too preoccupied to lecture him about finances now.
Even if he swiped his card to buy an entire floor of the mall, she wouldn’t bat an eye.
Leaving the mall, the uncle-niece pair walked slowly home.
Ever since the trip was confirmed, Aunt Ping had transformed into a professional nutritionist, launching her "tonic food plan." She pored over medicinal recipes, crafting nourishing dishes with creative flair.
Lately, they’d witnessed Aunt Ping’s endless culinary experiments—
But today, the moment they opened the door, a peculiar smell assaulted their noses.
Sheng Fang instantly knew something was wrong.
This scent… he’d never encountered it before!
Aunt Ping bustled out of the kitchen, proudly carrying a clay pot. "Durian stewed chicken! Try it—how is it?"
"I learned this specially. A three-year-old hen, simmered with fresh durian—the most nourishing combo!"
"Drink it hot. This soup strengthens the body. Once you’re abroad, you won’t taste home cooking."
"You’ll be gone half a month—gotta build up your health first. The durian wards off cold, the hen restores vitality…"
The scent of durian lingered in the air of the room.
Zhu Qing sat quietly at the dining table, sipping her soup in small, delicate mouthfuls.
Sheng Fang stared at her for a long time before suddenly blurting out with a hint of sorrow, "Qing Zai, you stink."
……
The final moments slipped away with the steady ticking of the clock.
Little Sheng Fang lay sprawled over the coffee table, his small face scrunched up as he fixed his unblinking gaze on the second hand.
"Young master, stop counting," Aunt Ping gently chided. "This is the real waste of time."
Only then did the little one nestle back against Zhu Qing’s side.
His lashes were damp, and the mere thought of being apart for so long made his eyes well up again with fresh grief.
This time, Sheng Fang didn’t throw a tantrum.
He knew that on this trip, Zhu Qing couldn’t take him along. Staying home was already a way to ease her burden. But still, he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart.
They had never been separated for so long before.
In this household, the niece was the strongest—she never shed a tear.
Yet here was Sheng Fang, already a teary mess.
He buried his face in Zhu Qing’s shoulder and asked in a small, muffled voice, "How many days in total?"
Zhu Qing pinched his soft little cheek before turning to fetch the desk calendar.
"The evaluation will take three to five days, the surgery is one day, and post-op observation is a week… If everything goes smoothly, we’ll charter a flight back," Zhu Qing explained. "But if the treatment doesn’t work—"
"Don’t say that! It will work!" Sheng Fang cut in, pressing his tiny hand over her mouth. "Children’s words hold no curse!"
"It will go smoothly!"
Every word he spoke was laced with fierce determination, as if sheer willpower could make it come true.
"Sheng Fang’s right," Zhu Qing chuckled, though her heart held no such confidence. "It won’t fail."
Aunt Ping discreetly turned away to wipe her tears. She couldn’t bear the thought of Zhu Qing facing everything alone in a foreign land, so she could only pray silently for her safety.
After three days of packing, the luggage now sat neatly by the door. Aunt Ping had meticulously organized everything, stuffing even the smallest gaps with essentials.
Suddenly, Sheng Fang came charging in, clutching his "Thunderclaw Armored Mantis" action figure. "Qing Zai, take this for courage!"
"……" Zhu Qing didn’t even humor him this time. "Absolutely not."
"Then this!" Sheng Fang whipped out a small Ultraman figurine from behind his back.
Clearly, he had come prepared.
The little boy pressed his most treasured toys into his niece’s hands. "For strength!"
That night, the house was thick with the ache of separation—
and the unspoken fears swirling beneath the surface.
The next morning, Zhu Qing rose before dawn, moving silently so as not to wake Sheng Fang.
She had specifically asked Aunt Ping not to rouse him—she couldn’t bear to see his tear-streaked face again.
The night before, Cheng Xinglang had already texted her.
Now, right on time, his car appeared downstairs.
The sound of rolling suitcase wheels faded into the distance, and only then did the door to the children’s room crack open slightly.
Sheng Fang and Aunt Ping stood together on the balcony, watching the scene below.
From their high floor, the distance was too great to hear anything—they could only see Dr. Cheng lifting Zhu Qing’s luggage into the trunk…
But Sheng Fang’s voice dissolved into the morning mist all the same—
"Qing Zai, bring Big Sister home safe!"
Aunt Ping rested a hand on his head, and the two of them stood in silence as the car disappeared around the street corner.
……
The thirteen-hour flight passed smoothly under the attentive care of the medical team.
The specialized equipment in the cabin and the familiar routines of the doctors almost made Zhu Qing feel as if she were still back home.
Over the past two weeks, the medical team had gone over every detail with her repeatedly, preparing for every possible complication.
The only obstacle Zhu Qing had to face alone was the time difference.
After settling her mother in, she finally managed to rest briefly on the cot in the hospital suite. The surgery wouldn’t happen immediately—the long flight was taxing even for someone healthy, let alone a patient who had been unconscious for years. But the initial evaluations showed Sheng Peirong’s vitals were stable.
Her phone rang at unpredictable hours.
With a seven-hour time difference, Sheng Fang hadn’t quite grasped the math, and Aunt Ping hadn’t noticed either. Sometimes the calls came at inconvenient times, interrupting Zhu Qing’s rest, but she never reminded them. Because Sheng Fang’s tiny voice, just like the Ultraman figurine she had already placed by her bedside, gave her strength.
Cheng Xinglang faxed handwritten letters to the hospital, along with Sheng Fang’s latest drawings.
Though separated by vast distance, the freshly printed pages carried a faint warmth—like a whisper of home.
His handwriting was bold and unrestrained, the strokes brimming with casual confidence.
In the letter, he wrote that Sheng Fang had been haunting the forensics department lately, begging for a ride on his motorcycle. But this time, Cheng Xinglang stood firm—while Hong Kong law didn’t explicitly forbid children from riding, the risks were too great. He couldn’t indulge the little rascal’s thrill-seeking anymore.
While collecting clippings recently, the doctor had stumbled upon a gruesome traffic accident report.
Zhu Qing realized with a jolt that she, too, had been careless about this.
She had always been reckless, charging ahead without noticing danger, and this time was no different—she had assumed a child-sized helmet was enough. But now she saw that no matter how skilled Cheng Xinglang was, no matter how safe the route, accidents were unpredictable.
As adults, they should have shielded the child from every possible risk.
Attached to the letter was Sheng Fang’s drawing—a sleek motorcycle next to a broken heart.
But the little one’s motorcycle dreams were only on pause. Cheng Xinglang had promised to fulfill them when he was older.
It wasn’t an empty promise—after all, they would be colleagues for a long time…
Unless Dr. Cheng ended up like that Dr. Ye, suddenly taking extended leave before being transferred away.
By evening, it was time for the final pre-surgery consultation. The doctor reiterated that the success rate was only thirty percent.
In the quiet of the hospital room, with only the steady beep of monitors filling the silence, Zhu Qing sat by her mother’s bedside, holding her hand gently.
It felt like the first time she had ever spoken so much to her.
"When I was little, I used to imagine what my mother would be like…"
This time, without Sheng Fang by her side, it was a moment just for the two of them.
She had only learned of Sheng Peirong’s existence a few months ago. Before that, Zhu Qing had never dared hope for a mother—it had already been an unexpected gift. But now, she wanted more.
When the nurse came in to remind her to rest, Zhu Qing hesitated.
She asked for just five more minutes.
Like Sheng Fang had said, she was scared.
She was afraid that after tomorrow, it would all be over—that she’d never get another chance to speak to Sheng Peirong again.
The photo frame on the bedside table held a picture Zhu Qing had found in the hillside villa.
It was a photo of her parents together.
"There are no pictures of me—not even from when I was a baby."
"If you wake up, we’ll take new ones, okay?"
Her voice was so tender, even she barely recognized it.
As the words left her lips, she froze, then tightened her grip on Sheng Peirong’s hand.
How desperately she wished her mother would respond to her plea.
...
Little Sheng Fang had been counting the days on the calendar—Qing Zai had been gone for five days now.
He’d been waiting and waiting, with no idea when she’d return.
Lately, at kindergarten, Fangfang had become obsessed with a new role-playing game.
He’d lost interest in being a bubble tea barista, grown tired of playing a supermarket customer, and even his once-beloved "cops and robbers" game no longer held his attention—he refused to play the cop, his usual favorite role.
Now, Sheng Fang only wanted to be a doctor.
The kindergarten’s toy supplies had grown more elaborate, thanks to Teacher Ji and the two teaching assistants who crafted them by hand.
Fangfang had secured the coveted role of the doctor—now, he was Dr. Sheng.
At the moment, Dr. Sheng wore a plastic stethoscope and examined each plush toy with grave seriousness.
"This teddy bear needs a shot," he declared solemnly.
But Fangfang quickly realized that treating stuffed animals was no fun—because even the teddy bear’s parents were just more teddy bears...
None of them could talk!
So, ever the natural leader, Fangfang organized the other kids into a line of pretend patients.
"Little Mei has a fever—tell your mom to get you some medicine."
"Daming needs surgery."
"Jin Bao, go get a blood test—and you have to fast. Did you eat breakfast?"
Jin Bao hesitated. "Dr. Sheng, I already ate breakfast... and even lunch."
Fangfang scribbled out prescriptions for his queue of patients, his tone light.
Because he was certain—every single one of them would recover today.
Including his big sister.
Though Aunt Ping still struggled with time zones, Fangfang had learned to calculate them—a skill he’d picked up from Dr. Cheng.
At 3 PM, the classroom clock struck the hour of his sister’s surgery.
Fangfang yanked off his stethoscope. "Teacher, I need to go home."
Today was a special, important day.
The little boy fidgeted impatiently, urging Aunt Ping to hurry and fetch him. They arrived home a full hour earlier than usual.
When the call connected, Zhu Qing’s tense voice carried all the way from distant Berlin.
The surgery had begun. Fangfang clutched the receiver tightly, as if that could bridge the thousands of miles between them.
Even if the line was silent with waiting, he refused to hang up.
"Young master, this is an international call..."
"Aunt Ping, now’s not the time for that!"
But in the end, Zhu Qing was the one who ended the call.
Alone outside the operating room, she had no energy left for conversation.
On the coffee table, crayon scribbles covered sheets of drawing paper.
Fangfang paced restlessly, redialing every few minutes. Even Aunt Ping, whose cooking never failed, had made a bland, tasteless soup today.
By 9 PM, exhaustion weighed heavily in Zhu Qing’s voice.
This time, the call stayed connected. Fangfang sat upright on the sofa, cradling the receiver like he was sending a long-distance hug to Qing Zai.
They spoke little, but in this moment, both needed the comfort of family.
This was precious. Irreplaceable.
Occasionally, Aunt Ping held the receiver for the young master. Muffled footsteps echoed from the other end.
Then, suddenly—the footsteps quickened. Shouts in German, unintelligible.
"Qing Qing, what’s happening?" Aunt Ping asked urgently.
"I don’t know," Zhu Qing’s voice tightened. "No one’s stopping to explain..."
Over the line, her anxious questioning continued.
But the hurried footsteps didn’t pause. Not a single person stopped.
Fangfang leaned in, chubby fingers gripping the phone.
Seven hours had passed since the surgery began.
Amid the chaos, he heard someone shouting excitedly—a doctor? A nurse?
It was German. Fangfang scowled. Why had he signed up for tennis, fencing, and astronomy? He should’ve learned German instead—maybe then he could’ve translated for Qing Zai.
The call grew fragmented, cutting in and out. Fangfang spun in place, frantic.
Then, after what felt like forever, Zhu Qing’s voice finally returned, clear again.
"They said... it’s voluntary movement," she whispered. "She showed voluntary movement during the surgery!"
What did that mean?
Fangfang’s tiny brow furrowed, torn between worry and hope.
He didn’t understand the medical terms.
But he could tell—today’s Qing Zai was different.
He’d never heard her like this before.
Tilting his head, Fangfang twirled the phone cord around his short fingers.
"Qing Zai... are you crying?"
