The nurse led her down a corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly, the fluorescent lights overhead casting everything in a sickly pale glow.
They soon turned into a small waiting room, beige walls, plastic chairs bolted to the floor, a water cooler in the corner that gurgled occasionally. There was a television mounted high on the wall playing a muted news program.
"Someone will come update you as soon as there's news," the nurse said softly before disappearing back down the hallway.
Shuyin stood in the center of the room, unable to sit, unable to think. The clock on the wall read 2:47 AM.
She watched the second hand make its slow rotation...
Once...
Twice....
Three times.....
Time had become elastic, stretching and warping until minutes felt like hours.
She began to pace, five steps to the window.... Turn seven steps to the door.
Turn.... Five steps back. The rhythm of it was the only thing keeping her from screaming.
The antiseptic smell was everywhere, burning in her nostrils, making her want to gag. Every time the automatic doors down the hall whooshed open, her heart would lurch painfully in her chest. She would freeze mid-step, holding her breath, waiting. But it was always someone else's doctor, someone else's news, and someone else's tragedy.
The waiting dragged on. Three o'clock became four. Four became five. Dawn was approaching outside, the darkness beyond the window slowly giving way to a grey, pre-morning light.
Mr. Feng appeared once, bringing her a blanket and another cup of tea she couldn't drink. "Mrs. Lan is still trying to reach your family," he said quietly. "The phones just ring and ring."
Shuyin nodded without speaking. What was there to say?
At 5:43 AM, the doors finally opened, and a doctor emerged.
He wore blue scrubs that looked rumpled, as if he'd been wearing them for too many hours. His face was carefully composed, professionally blank, but Shuyin could see something in his eyes, a heaviness, and a reluctance.
She knew before he even opened his mouth.
"Miss Lin?" His voice was gentle, too gentle.
Shuyin rushed forward, her legs somehow still working despite feeling like they might collapse at any moment. Her entire body was trembling so violently that she could hear her teeth chattering.
"Is she...? How is she? Can I see her now? Is she awake?"
The doctor's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes, pity. It was a pity.
"I'm very sorry, Miss Lin." The words came slowly, deliberately, as if he was trying to cushion the blow. "We did everything we could. Your grandmother suffered a massive cardiac arrest. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to revive her. She passed away at 5:28 AM. I'm so sorry for your loss."
The words hit her like physical blows, but they didn't make sense. They were just sounds, syllables strung together without meaning.
Shuyin stared at him, her mind refusing to process what he was saying. She was waiting for the real news, the news that made sense. That her Popo was stable. That she was resting. That she would be okay.
But the doctor's expression remained unchanged... Sympathetic... And final..
"No," Shuyin heard herself say, the word came out small, childlike.
"No, that's... you're wrong. She was just... we were just talking. She was fine."
"Check again..."
"Please check again."
"I understand this is difficult...." the doctor began trying to console her.
"She can't be dead!" Shuyin's voice rose, cracking. "She can't be! I need to see her. Let me see her. She's not..."
A nurse had appeared, standing ready as if she'd been expecting this reaction. The doctor exchanged a glance with her.
"It's the shock," he said, more to the nurse than to Shuyin. His voice had taken on a clinical quality now, detached. "Quite common in cases of sudden loss. We'll need to run some standard toxicology tests as part of the protocol, given the suddenness of her passing. It's a routine procedure for unexpected deaths."
Toxicology... Protocol.... Unexpected deaths. The words washed over Shuyin without meaning. Everything had gone distant, muffled, as if she were underwater.
The nurse's hand was on her arm again, guiding her. "Come with me, dear. Let's sit you down."
Shuyin was led to yet another room, smaller and quieter than the first waiting area. This one had softer lighting and a box of tissues on every surface. A grieving room, she realized sooner. A room designed for people breaking down from the loss of their loved ones.
She sat because she was told to sit. Someone pressed a cup of water into her hands. She didn't drink it.
Time passed. She didn't know how much. The numbness was absolute, a thick blanket smothering everything.
Someone brought her forms, official-looking papers with small print and lines for signatures. She signed them without reading, her hand moving mechanically. Her signature looked wrong, shaky, and unfamiliar to her.