Aryana flushed a little but gave a tiny nod, clutching the edge of her sleeve. "Wǒ… wǒ hái zài xué." (I'm still learning.)
The old woman took the fruit with care, her fingers brushing Aryana's briefly. "Màn màn lái. Méi guānxi," (Take your time. It's alright,) she said kindly. "You have a good heart. That's the most important language."
Aryana's chest eased slightly. She didn't need to say much more. She now had someone to silently accompany, someone who didn't mind her quietness, her foreignness, or her accent.
Just presence. That was enough.
From the hallway, Huo Ting Cheng stood still, his figure half-shadowed by the glass panel beside him. His black coat hung crisply from his broad shoulders, the clean lines of his profile sharp against the sterile hospital light.
Beside him, Huo Qi, Huo Wu, and Huo Zheng stood like silent sentinels, each alert but unobtrusive. Making sure he was safe all the time.
