At the hospital
The early afternoon light slanted through the hospital windows, casting golden patches across the vinyl floor. Lin Yuyan walked slowly, her steps as gentle as the breeze blowing outside. Her white coat still carried the faint scent of disinfectant and chrysanthemum tea — a blend that had come to feel like her signature.
In her hands, she carried a small wooden box, the kind used for storing artisanal tea. Wrapped with a simple ribbon, it held sachets of chrysanthemum and ginger, dried at home the night before — a legacy from her grandmother's care.
She stopped in front of room 407 and knocked with the delicacy of someone who had already become part of another's routine. A trembling but still vibrant voice responded from inside:
— Come in, pretty girl.
Yuyan opened the door with a small, yet wholehearted smile.
— I brought something that might warm the soul — she said, showing the box. — A recipe from my grandmother.
Mrs. Qian looked at her in silence for a few seconds. Then she held the box as if receiving a rare treasure.
— You always remind me that the world still has hands that know how to care.
Yuyan sat in the armchair beside the bed. The elderly woman spoke slowly, with long pauses between one memory and the next. She talked about the granddaughter she hadn't seen in years. About silent birthdays. About fear — not of death itself, but of leaving without being remembered.
— Sometimes I think that when I'm gone, no one will notice.
Yuyan gently held her hand.
— You have a name. You have stories. There are people who will miss you... even before you go. And that... is already a way of being eternal.
The silence that settled wasn't empty. It was full of presence — the kind that comforts without needing words.
When she left the room, Yuyan felt her chest tighten — not from pain, but from that kind of compassion one learns to carry carefully, like someone transporting water in a leaf.
The pediatric ward was another universe: walls painted with clouds and giraffes, colorful mobiles spinning slowly, and soft music playing in the background. Laughter from children mixed with the beeping of monitors as part of the symphony of the day.
Yuyan checked the clipboard and walked to bed 12.
There, sitting with her knees tucked in and the blanket pulled up to her chin, was a little girl with eyes far too big for her age. The medical chart read: Yue. A short name, barely whispered. Transferred from an orphanage, recently admitted. No guardian listed. No visitors expected.
— Hello, Yue. May I come in?
The girl didn't answer. She only pulled the blanket tighter. A worn-out teddy bear, missing one eye, lay beside her — a piece of childhood clutched with all her strength.
Yuyan sat on the edge of the bed with the same delicacy one uses to hold a secret on the verge of unraveling.
— Did you know my name has "rain" in it? Yuyan. It means something like "words of the rain." And yours? Do you know what it means?
The girl hesitated. Then murmured, almost soundlessly:
— Moon.
— How lovely. The moon never leaves… it just changes places. Sometimes, we can't see it. But it's always there.
Yue didn't respond. But her shoulders relaxed, as if a part of her had heard.
— When I was little, I used to think the moon was where sad people went to rest. Sometimes, I like to believe my grandma is still there. Embroidering plum blossoms among the stars. Making tea.
The girl let out a timid giggle. Small, but sincere.
But soon after, her expression fell again. Her eyes, still damp, shimmered with something else — a kind of sadness that didn't belong to someone her age.
— Nobody wants the moon — she said suddenly, in a sharp whisper. — Nobody looks at it when the sun is out.
Yuyan paused.
— What do you mean?
Yue stared at her teddy bear.
— No one chose me. I stayed at the orphanage for a long time. The other kids got taken. I didn't. They always said they'd come back. They never did.
Yuyan felt a tightness in her chest. The kind of pain that's far too familiar to be just empathy.
— That doesn't mean you don't matter.
— Yes, it does. It means I'm invisible. And people forget what they can't see.
There was silence. Dense. Painful.
Yuyan then leaned in slowly.
— I see you, Yue.
The girl blinked, surprised. Then murmured, as if needing confirmation:
— You really see me?
— I do. I see how you hold that teddy bear. How your shoulders curl when you're afraid. How you still believe... even when you say you don't.
Yue didn't answer. But for the first time, she let the blanket fall to her chest.
— Want to know a secret? — Yuyan whispered. — Whenever I'm sad… I write. Even if it's just a sentence. Even if no one reads it. Writing is like planting a flower in the dark. One day, it will bloom.
Yue looked at her, eyes shimmering.
— And if the flower never grows?
Yuyan smiled. One of those smiles from someone who's waited for springs that never came.
— Then it grows slowly. Right inside the chest. And one day... someone will smell the fragrance.
For a moment, Yue just watched her. Then she pulled her teddy bear closer, as if that sentence had become a new blanket.
Then she whispered:
— If I disappear... will you write me a flower?
Yuyan nodded, throat tight.
— I will. As many as you want.
Just then, the door creaked open. A head peeked in, smiling:
— Guess who's running away from the reports?
Yuyan smiled at the sight of Xiaoqing — her colleague known for her light spirit and the ginger candies stashed in her pockets.
— Done with your shift? — she asked, rising to her feet.
— Trying to. But first, I came to share a hospital tragedy...
Yuyan raised an eyebrow.
— Audit?
— Worse. Lecture. Tonight. And the worst part… mandatory. — She rolled her eyes. — In the new auditorium. Seven o'clock. Every department's been notified.
— About what?
— Diagnosis, I think. One of those titles that promise everything and only deliver graphs.
Yuyan glanced at Yue, who now gently stroked her teddy bear. Then looked at her colleague.
— And you're going?
— I was thinking of faking an emotional neck sprain. But I doubt it'll work. What about you?
— Maybe.
— Maybe? If even you go, it might be worth it. Who knows — maybe tonight is one of those nights when something... changes.
Yuyan forced a smile, but there was something distant in her eyes. As if part of her was still at that bedside, with a flower yet to bloom.
— I'll think about it.
Xiaoqing gave her a wink and left, leaving behind a faint citrus scent in the air.
When Yuyan turned her gaze back to the bed... it was empty.
Yue was asleep.
Or pretending.
Or perhaps already drifting — not from the hospital, but from the hope of being seen again.
Yuyan stayed a few moments longer, as if saying goodbye to something for which there were no words. She adjusted the blanket over the teddy bear and left a folded note beside it, written by hand:
"To the moon that doesn't shine, yet still illuminates."
Then she left the room in silence.
And for a moment, the corridor felt longer than ever.
Later that afternoon…
The sun poured through the tall windows of the administrative building like warm honey, painting the files and walls in golden, tired tones. The light seemed to rest upon things with rare care — as if it, too, had grown weary of the world.
In the Director's Office
In the clinical director's office, the air conditioner whispered, and the clinking of porcelain marked pauses between technical discussions.
Wen Zhaonan sat upright, fingers interlaced over his knees. His gaze was focused on the reports in front of him, but a hint of absence softened his expression — as if his body were there, present and functional, but his thoughts... wandering through other hallways.
Liu Minghao spoke with restrained enthusiasm, flipping through spreadsheets with trained agility.
— ...so if we cross-reference the outpatient data with the biomarkers your team is tracking, we have a real chance of advancing the protocol.
Wen nodded gently.
— We still need patients with more clearly defined profiles. If we manage that, yes — it could be viable.
The director jotted something down, satisfied. But then noticed Wen had gone quiet.
The professor's gaze was turned to the window — yet he seemed to see something beyond it.
Earlier that day, while walking through one of the pediatric corridors, shortly after brushing past a nurse with soft brown eyes — something had made him stop.
It was just a glimpse.
An open room.
The soft light of late morning filtering through the windows.
A child sitting alone on the bed, clutching a worn-out teddy bear.
He heard the low voice of a social worker, speaking to one of the nurses:
— We're from an orphanage with no resources. Does the hospital have any kind of support for her?
The nurse shook her head with visible regret.
— You'll need to find a way to cover the initial treatment. After that, she'll be transferred to another public hospital.
Wen pretended to check his clipboard, as if he had forgotten something. But he stayed. Watching quietly.
The girl didn't look sick — at least not physically. But there was something in her eyes... an absence that hurt. An ancient silence. As if she had already learned to expect nothing.
Now, seated across from the director, that image still lingered inside him.
— Dr. Liu — he said in a low voice — there's a little girl in the pediatric ward. She must be around six. Very thin. She was holding a teddy bear. She looked... alone.
The director raised his eyes, surprised by the shift in topic.
— Hm… I think I know who you're referring to. She arrived today, brought in by social services.
Wen leaned forward slightly.
— Is she being followed up?
— As much as possible. But without a legal guardian, everything is limited. We can only perform basic procedures. For more specialized evaluations... we need court authorization.
Wen fell silent for a few seconds. But it was a heavy silence — filled with memory.
The director, experienced, didn't interrupt him.
And then Wen said:
— If I wanted to help... anonymously. Cover whatever costs are necessary. Would that be possible?
The director studied him for a moment, with quiet respect.
— We can register it as a donation linked to the medical record. Discreet. Without your name.
Wen nodded.
— I prefer it that way.
Liu Minghao picked up his pen, noted something. Then, in a gentler tone:
— May I ask why?
Wen looked toward the window, though he saw something else entirely.
— Because no one should grow up believing they don't deserve to be cared for.
The director said nothing. He simply nodded, with quiet reverence.
Then he shifted the tone:
— And the lecture, Professor Wen? Is everything ready?
Wen took a deep breath. Readjusted his posture.
— Slides revised. Data in order. And... hopefully some listening, if we're lucky.
— If it's anything like your classes, there'll be more than listening. There'll be silence — the good kind.
Wen gathered the papers calmly.
— If just one person walks out of there thinking differently… it'll have been worth it.
He left the room and walked slowly down the corridor. But his steps were steady.
He still didn't know the girl's name.
But that didn't matter.
What mattered... was that someone knew she existed.
And that, even in silence, it would be seen.
In the Auditorium
The new auditorium still exhaled the scent of fresh paint and newly upholstered seats. The soft ceiling lights created an almost intimate atmosphere — different from the oppressive hospital rooms. There, the silence felt intentional.
Yuyan entered alongside Xiaoqing, both with their white coats folded over their arms. They managed to arrive five minutes early — a feat worthy of a medal after their shift.
— At least there's air conditioning — Xiaoqing murmured, fanning herself with the lecture pamphlet. — If it gets boring, we'll just pretend we're at a spa.
Yuyan smiled and took a seat in the middle row — the place of someone who doesn't want attention but also doesn't want to hide.
In the row ahead, two young nurses whispered excitedly.
— Did you see? It's Professor Wen Zhaonan.
— The biochemistry one?
— That's him. I had class with him. A legend. A monk. The man who makes enzymes sound like poetry.
— Me too! He explains everything so calmly... even mitochondria sounds beautiful.
— But way too serious, right? I've never seen him smile. But today... wow. He's different.
Yuyan listened in silence.
And then, like a name rising from the pages of an old book:
Wen Zhaonan.
She knew. It was him.
The man with the tray.
That restrained gaze. That presence that lingered even after he walked away.
— Earth to Lin Yuyan — whispered Xiaoqing, nudging her. — You okay?
— Yes. Just... remembering.
— The tray guy?
Yuyan pretended to fix her bag.
— You're a terrible actress. But that's fine. I support this silent drama. — Xiaoqing laughed. — So, after this? Dinner? That little place down the street's still open.
— I'd like that — Yuyan replied, though her voice came out soft. Her heart… was already somewhere else.
The auditorium lights began to dim slowly, as if even the electricity bowed in reverence to silence.
A faint crackle at the microphone signaled the beginning. Soon, Liu Minghao stepped onto the stage with his usual calm stride, glasses perfectly aligned on his nose, hands steady on the mic.
— Good evening, everyone — he said, wearing the kind of smile that holds more stories than degrees. — I know… most of you would rather be home right now, feet up, AC on, with a big bowl of instant noodles.
The audience let out a polite laugh.
— But I promise tonight may offer something even more nourishing. And with less sodium.
More laughter. Warmer now.
The director walked slowly to the center of the stage.
— We are officially inaugurating this auditorium — he said, with a note of pride — part of a new chapter in our hospital. We've invested in technology, yes. But more than that: in listening, in sensitivity, in people.
He paused briefly.
— And that's why we chose to open this new chapter with a professor who, despite his youth, has become one of the most respected names in clinical biochemistry in the country. With international collaborations, articles in high-impact journals, awards in innovation and teaching, and — so they say — the rare ability to make cells and metaphors coexist in the same sentence.
A few quiet laughs rose.
Yuyan raised her eyebrows, surprised.
— They call him a prodigy, a poet of science… and in the university halls, the "lab monk." Because he almost never leaves the lab.
More laughter.
— But today, he did. And he's going to speak to you. Ladies and gentlemen... Professor Wen Zhaonan.
The stage lights softened.
The curtains opened.
And he entered.
No lab coat. No stiff formality. Just a white linen shirt, collar slightly open. Charcoal blazer, no tie. His hair was carefully styled, but one rebellious strand fell across his forehead — as if even it resisted absolute discipline.
Yuyan held her breath.
Not because he looked handsome — though he did. But because, under that light, he seemed to belong to a world between the visible and the invisible.
It was the man with the tray.
But now... with a name. A title. A story.
— Wow… — whispered one of the nurses in front. — Tonight he doesn't look like a professor. He looks like a movie character.
— He makes mitochondria sound dreamy — murmured the other.
Xiaoqing leaned toward Yuyan and whispered:
— It's him, right? Tray guy?
Yuyan nodded slowly.
But inside… something was quietly blooming.
On stage, Wen adjusted the microphone. And before even speaking, he cast a brief — yet direct — glance in her direction.
She didn't look away.
It was only a second.
But it felt like time stepped aside to make room for something larger than time itself.
Wen Zhaonan stepped toward the center of the stage with measured steps. But as soon as the first word left his lips, something shifted.
Not in tone. Not in posture.
But in presence.
As if the world had shrunk — and everything now existed inside that voice.
— Good evening.
It wasn't a common greeting. It was an open pause in the chest of every listener.
— Tonight, we'll talk about neurological diagnosis. But before that... we'll talk about listening. About what gets lost before it's even named.
The screen lit up. The first image was a brain scan — colorful, silent, devastating.
— This is the image of a brain with advanced-stage Alzheimer's — he said. — But before this image... there were small forgettings. Names. Dates. Clothes placed in the wrong drawer. Subtle delays in speech. And eventually... the mirror.
Yuyan felt the air shift.
That image wasn't just an image.
It was the chair in her childhood yard. Her grandmother staring at a wall without knowing why. The scent of chrysanthemum on the pillow.
— Neurological damage is deceitful — Wen continued. — It doesn't hurt like a fracture. It spreads like fog. It steals, little by little. And in the end… there's no one left to call for help. Because even the name has been lost.
Xiaoqing noticed her friend's expression.
— Yuyan...?
She didn't answer right away. She only whispered:
— My grandmother.
Wen walked the stage unhurriedly, as if each step was synchronized with the pain he described. The slides changed, but his voice never rushed. It was like he was telling a story — and somehow, part of it himself.
— A neurological diagnosis is sometimes a disguised cry for help. It hides in minor delays, a forgotten name, a gaze that drifts mid-sentence.
A new image appeared: two hands intertwined — one adult, one fragile and wrinkled.
— We can't always intervene in time. But listening... is still a way of caring. Even when time no longer gives back what it's taken.
Yuyan felt her eyes burn.
She remembered her grandmother humming childhood songs without knowing the lyrics. The spoon dropping to the floor, and the strange laugh that followed — as if memory played hide-and-seek with itself.
— Caring for someone with dementia is an act of love... and of farewell, in installments — Wen continued. — Each morning brings a new absence. But each gesture is still a way of saying: "I'm here, even when you're not."
On screen, data gave way to a quote:
"Not all forgetting is absence. Some memories live in touch."
Yuyan closed her eyes for a second.
She remembered.
The jujube tea her grandmother made when she had a fever. The plum blossom embroidery. The voice softly asking:
— Do you still believe in love, my flower?
And now, in that room, it felt like someone had listened to her memory in silence — and turned it into speech.
Xiaoqing squeezed her hand gently.
— He's not just giving a lecture… — she whispered. — He's telling his own story, isn't he?
Yuyan replied in a soft, fragile voice:
— And somehow... ours too.
On stage, Wen walked back to the center. The screen went blank.
— Medicine often teaches us to name what is visible. But what matters most... still has no name.
He paused.
The silence was absolute.
He looked out at the audience again.
And for an entire moment, he looked at her.
— Some presences make no sound. But they change the air.
And then... he went quiet.
The applause didn't come immediately.
It was as if everyone had forgotten how to clap — or didn't want to disturb the delicacy of that moment.
But it came. First timid. Then steady. And through the clapping, Yuyan didn't move.
She looked at him as one does when recognizing a truth too intimate to speak.
He had talked about patients.
About diagnoses.
About listening.
But to her, it felt like he had spoken directly to her heart.
She couldn't explain it.
But she knew — what had just happened wasn't just a lecture.
It was the beginning of something that had yet to be named.
After the Lecture
The hospital had begun to quiet its corridors, like a bird folding its wings at the end of the day.
Lin Yuyan and Xiaoqing went up once more to the pediatric ward before heading to dinner. The excuse was to say goodnight to little Yue. The girl was asleep, the stuffed bear still tightly clutched to her chest.
But that wasn't the only thing that had changed.
— Look at this — Xiaoqing whispered, discreetly pointing.
Beside the bed rested a clean blanket, a new notebook with a blue cover, and an unopened box of colored pencils.
— That wasn't here before — said Yuyan, lowering her voice.
Xiaoqing stepped out for a moment and went to the nurses' station. She returned minutes later, her eyes narrowed, a subtle smile on her lips.
— I found out.
— What?
— Qiao told me. The social worker was called into the director's office late this afternoon. When she came out, she already had an envelope — the initial treatment costs were covered. The supplies, the notebook, everything... donated.
Yuyan blinked slowly.
— Someone… from outside?
— She said whoever delivered it didn't want to be identified. Just asked to make sure the girl had what she needed.
Silence.
But Yuyan's gaze lingered on the blue notebook.
— And she said one more thing — Xiaoqing added, lowering her voice. — The only name that passed through the director's office around that time... was Professor Wen.
Yuyan didn't respond. But something stirred inside her — like when the wind brushes against a flower before it blooms.
— Qiao said he paid for everything, but asked for no one to know.
— And now you know. But you won't say anything.
Yuyan nodded.
— Never.
— Why do you think he did it? — Xiaoqing said. — He could've at least asked for your name. But maybe... he's the kind who watches before getting close.
Yuyan remained quiet in her thoughts — as if it were just another ordinary day. She kept bumping into Wen, but he didn't even know she existed. Maybe it was time to let that go.
They descended together to the ground floor, walking slowly toward the side exit. The night carried a soft breeze, and even the echoes of the hospital seemed to fall silent.
And then they saw him.
Wen Zhaonan stood near the side gate, blazer folded over his arm, his face turned toward the sky, as if listening to the breath of time itself.
When he sensed their presence, he turned.
And their eyes met.
He recognized the two from the ward. The nurse who almost dropped the tray. The other — the one with the easy smile. But he still didn't know their names.
Qiao was the first to greet him, naturally:
— Professor Wen. What a nice coincidence running into you.
He gave a small nod, voice low:
— Good evening.
— The lecture was… different. It touched a lot of people. I've had one image stuck in my head since.
— Which image?
— The lady with Alzheimer's — she replied. — But more than that... the hands. One holding the other. You spoke... with great care.
Wen lowered his gaze, slightly embarrassed.
— That's what I hoped for. Care.
Xiaoqing smiled. And with a quick glance at Yuyan, added:
— The lady beside me was also moved. Good thing you caught her tray earlier. If she had dropped it... I don't think she would've made it to the lecture.
Wen looked to the side, surprised, trying to hide the quiet smile forming. He was clearly flustered.
— Oh… it was by chance. Reflex, maybe.
— A good reflex — said Xiaoqing.
Wen glanced briefly at Yuyan. She kept her eyes lowered, hands folded over her white coat. But a soft blush warmed her cheeks.
Silence.
Xiaoqing then said, as casually as possible:
— I don't think you two have been properly introduced, right?
Wen shook his head gently.
Xiaoqing leaned slightly toward him, half-playful:
— This is our chrysanthemum tea nurse. And eyes that know how to listen. But she's shy. Want to guess her name yourself?
Wen blinked, puzzled. Then looked back at Yuyan.
Without a word, she pulled her badge from her pocket and slowly held it out.
He read it aloud, almost like reciting a line of poetry:
— Lin… Yuyan.
She nodded, wordless. Her name echoed in silence.
Xiaoqing then added lightly:
— We were heading to the little eatery down the street. Simple food, but good for the soul. Have you eaten, Professor?
Wen hesitated.
— No… not yet.
Xiaoqing feigned surprise:
— Perfect. Come with us.
Wen looked at Yuyan, unsure if he should accept. She said nothing. But she didn't look away.
Xiaoqing smiled.
— We promise — no talk about diagnoses. Just hot soup.
Wen nodded, almost imperceptibly.
— Then… I'll come.
And the three of them walked together, side by side beneath the garden's dim lights. The trees whispered with the breeze. Each step felt timid, yet full of something that hadn't been named yet.
Wen glanced discreetly at Yuyan once more.
Now…
he knew her name.