Next, whether it’s dragon’s pond or tiger’s den, it should be better than here.
He still felt that the heavens couldn’t possibly treat him kindly—what awaited him was nothing more than the next cliff and precipice.
He was also very curious, just how hard could the Old Heaven [老天爷 — a personified term for the heavens or fate in Chinese culture] push him to death, how much more effort could it make, how far could it go.
How much worse could he still get, how much longer could he endure.
Actually, he didn’t care. What was supporting him now was nothing more than a single belief.
To leave only after repaying everyone’s “debts.”
What he owed wasn’t even much—just the expectations of his teachers, the kindness of that police officer who ran back and forth, the nurses who tried hard to get him a bed, even without money still came to see him’s doctor, the girl at the window who helped him with procedures, and the “kind-hearted person” she spoke of, that’s all.
Put in a bit of effort, and soon it would be all paid back.
Song Qing withdrew his gaze and gathered his attention back to his side.
Maybe because the weather turned cold, everyone was wearing thick coats, some even already fleece-lined, only he was still in a thin shirt and T-shirt. It was also possible that the five-point shorts couldn’t cover his incomplete limbs—Song Qing noticed that everyone’s eyes, more or less, fell on him.
There was pity, there was ridicule, there was mockery—more of it was indifference, a sweep of apathy.
Maybe it had to do with getting into a car accident and his body having endured calamity. Maybe it had to do with being abandoned, losing the ability to survive, picked up like a stray dog—he felt himself becoming fragile, actually feeling cold, as if there was wind blowing, or perhaps it was rumors and gossip, freezing him to the point he couldn’t help but shrink his neck, lower his head slightly.
Song Qing looked at the floor, at the cold, white ceramic tiles, and let out a sarcastic laugh.
His line of sight was already not on the same level as others, and now it seemed even lower, even shorter.
Shorter than everyone by a chunk—everyone looked at him while lowering their heads.
But thinking carefully, he had probably never looked up proudly before either. He had always been this low.
So cold.
Song Qing lifted both hands, exhaled a breath of air into his palms, trying to use that faint bit of warmth to warm up his body.
It didn’t help at all. Still cold.
His shoulders curled tighter, his head lowered even more, staring at the reflection of a person on the floor tiles, showing an expression uglier than crying.
Indeed, he had never raised his head to look at people, but never before had he been this low.
This was the first time.
“Song Qing.”
He suddenly heard someone calling him. Song Qing raised his head and saw that girl in a clean white hoodie pushing aside others and walking toward him.
As if afraid he had waited too long, she ran over in small steps—like he wasn’t just someone picked up offhandedly, but someone important.
Song Qing’s gaze followed her, watched her step by step come closer, like she broke through the cold wind, bringing sunlight with her—and once she reached his side, he miraculously felt no more cold.
So warm.
That girl leaned over, smiling, and said: “It’s done. We can go now.”
Nan Zhi didn’t wait for him to reply. She stepped behind him, pushing the wheelchair while heading out of the hospital, staring at the top of his head, falling into deep thought.
She actually could have walked closer before speaking. She herself couldn’t explain why she had to call him from so far away. Maybe it was because she felt he was uncomfortable, or maybe she sensed the atmosphere around him suddenly turning gloomy, making her call out involuntarily.
That shout was like it broke some kind of demonic obstruction, Nan Zhi felt the area around him return to normal, didn’t look so silent and dead anymore.
Nan Zhi used some strength, pushing the wheelchair carefully, trying her best to take smoother paths, hurrying in the direction where she had parked.
Although her savings weren’t much, she had a car and a house—two units in her hometown, one here. Probably that’s why she was so poor, all the money went into buying furniture and appliances.
These things were really money-consuming.
When Nan Zhi was almost there, her steps suddenly paused. She really couldn’t hold back. There was a question she very, very much wanted to ask, and she didn’t hold it in. She directly said, “Song Qing.”
She lowered her head to look at the person in the wheelchair. “Earlier your eyes were fixed on the window. What were you looking at?”
She wanted to know his current state—was it despair, or did he still have a thread of hope toward this world.
Even if she might not get a clear answer, and the other party might hide their real state, she still wanted to probe a little, to understand him a bit more.
You could observe a person’s state by what they looked at—this was something she had come to understand from personal experience.
The place Nan Zhi lived in now was a two-story apartment. There was no attic built in between—just empty space. The highest point was six full meters, and from the ceiling hung a long, heavy string of crystal prisms.
She usually cherished her life a lot and always worried that string of crystal lamps might fall and smash her to death, so she normally avoided walking beneath it.
The happier she was, the more she avoided it. The sadder she was, the more indifferent she became.
When she was at her lowest, she even took the initiative to move the sofa under that crystal chandelier, then sat on the sofa, stared at it, and imagined the scene of it falling and killing her.
She was not an optimistic person, and had also encountered many sudden blows—like how the person who loved her most in this world, her grandmother who treated her best, passed away.
It’s been over a year, and she still couldn’t adapt.
Song Qing was rubbing his leg. It had only been just over a week since his amputation. The wound still faintly ached now and then—especially after large movements. That time getting into the wheelchair had drained all his energy and had pulled on that sensitive patch of nerves and flesh. He felt sharp pulses of pain. Rubbing it made it slightly better.
He pressed on the wound, hoping it would hold up, just a bit longer. Caught off guard by the question, his movements paused slightly.
“I wasn’t looking at the window.”
He spoke honestly, “I was looking at the flowerpot on the windowsill.”
Nan Zhi blinked, a bit surprised. “Flower?”
“Mm.” Song Qing continued rubbing his cold and faintly aching leg. “That flowerpot hadn’t been cared for by anyone. The first time I saw it, it was yellow and withered, about to die. A few days ago, there was a rain, and the window wasn’t closed tightly. Rainwater came in from outside and soaked the flowerpot, and the flower branches started turning green again. The dead wood revived with spring.” [枯木回春 — idiom: “dead wood returns to spring” = new life or recovery from despair]
Nan Zhi listened carefully, slowly savoring his words, trying to probe his mental state.
She hadn’t studied psychology, couldn’t really grasp anything technical—but one thing she knew: he hadn’t been paying attention to the young man who jumped from the building across, nor had he been looking out the window. He had been looking at a flower that was withered and came back to life. That at least showed, he didn’t have the same thoughts as that young man.
Nan Zhi let out a long breath of relief.
To be honest, she had been quite worried that after taking him home, he wouldn’t be able to move on, would teeter on the edge of life and death, and if something happened in her place while she wasn’t around, she really wouldn’t even know who to cry to.
Just from this brief contact, she felt that even though he was trapped in a cage, his condition, his spirit were both pretty okay. And what he paid attention to were also things full of vitality and growth.
That flower—seeing light through the shadows—did it represent that he, too, was hoping his time would come, or wanting to be like that flower, to rise again after suffering?
Nan Zhi suddenly became curious about that flower. “What kind of flower was it?”
Song Qing shook his head. “Don’t know. When I saw it, it was already half-withered. Now only the leaves have turned green—it hasn’t bloomed yet.”
Nan Zhi understood and nodded her head.
After a while, she let go of the wheelchair with both hands. “Song Qing, wait for me here for a bit, I’ll be back soon.”
She wanted to go bring that flower back.
She didn’t know why, but she felt that it wasn’t just a flower. Maybe it was also a kind of strength—a kind that couldn’t be explained clearly, couldn’t be spoken plainly, but could bring him hope.
After getting a response, Nan Zhi quickly ran off, heading toward the hospital.
Song Qing sat in the wheelchair, turned his direction to face her directly, and watched her disappear into the night.
She had already arrived late, then ran up and down, got the IV drip done—now it was about past seven.
Song Qing took out his tattered phone from his pocket. His thumb hooked down the rubber band at the top, and through the crack he checked the time.
19:23.
He deliberately opened the clock app and counted second by second. Time, for some reason, became especially long again—every second was like an hour, especially hard to endure.
Or rather, ever since his leg was amputated, any kind of change made him uneasy. For example, in the beginning, when he was in the ward, he was suddenly pushed out on the hospital bed.
He didn’t know what was going to happen. Someone who owed medical fees didn’t have the qualifications to ask—he could only resign himself to fate, let others arrange things as they pleased.
At most, he could guess in his heart: maybe they were going to kick him out?
He hadn’t paid the fees in many days. Every time a nurse came, they would sigh. The chances of being kicked out were very high.
Then he thought again—if they were going to kick him out, there was no need to waste a hospital bed, right?
Maybe it was a kind-hearted nurse sending him off, letting him walk a little less to exit the hospital.
As he was being pushed, countless possibilities circled through his mind, again and again.
In the end, he was sent to the very end of the corridor. That nurse said, this spot had bad conditions, and someone had died here—no one would want to live here, so he could stay in peace for a while.
Only then did the heart he had been holding the whole time settle down. He didn’t mind the poor conditions, or that someone had died there, or whatever else.
For him at that time, being able to have a place to stay was already good enough. How could he be picky?
Now—
Song Qing gripped the armrest of the wheelchair tightly. Though he didn’t want to admit it, that feeling of panic and unease came back again.
He couldn’t help but wonder again—were those so-called good-hearted people who said they paid his fees actually lying to him?
Afraid he would cling on and not leave, did they purposely use this method to coax him into leaving the hospital?
But then he thought again—even if that were the case, he should still thank that little girl. She had exchanged all his useless and unnecessary things for food and drink. If he rationed it, it should be enough to last him a month.
In a month, his wound should have healed. He could look for some small jobs. In his current state, most normal jobs wouldn’t take him—he could only do some manual labor.
Maybe the boss wouldn’t want to hire a disabled person. Then he’d cut his wage in half. Still not willing? Then cut it even more. As long as he could get food to survive this low point, it would be fine.
He once again couldn’t help but think—it shouldn’t be a scam, because she had gone through proper procedures. Song Qing had seen with his own eyes that she went to the window counter, took his ID documents, and handled the discharge formalities.
If he still owed money, the hospital wouldn’t let him leave.
And this wheelchair—she hadn’t asked for it back.
It would’ve been very easy for her to take it back—just push him over, or trick him into temporarily sitting somewhere else, then push the wheelchair and run off, and he wouldn’t be able to catch up.
She didn’t do that.
But why hadn’t she come back?
19:30.
19:40, and still, she hadn’t returned.
In Song Qing’s mind, the thought came again—so he really was kicked out of the hospital after all.
He just knew the Old Heaven couldn’t possibly treat him kindly.
It had once again made a fool of him—gave him hope, made him think a new life was waving at him, and when he couldn’t resist the temptation and reached out his hand—
It gave him a heavy slap, then told him: delusional.
In his heart, he had already become certain he’d been deceived, but maybe because he was unwilling to accept it, or maybe because he was just that stubborn, he still remained planted where he was, waiting to smash into a wall and die [撞死在南墙 — idiom: run headlong into a wall, i.e., persist stubbornly in error].
He’d wait for her another half hour. If she still didn’t come, he’d give the wheelchair to security and ask them to return it to that nurse.
It was new—some of the protective plastic film hadn’t even been peeled off yet. Since she came back so fast, it was probably bought nearby. Maybe she could still return it and save a bit of money.
As for him, he’d wrap his legs in clothes, walk on foot into some alleyway, find a small factory that was hiring. It would look awful, but right now it was the best and only option.
He had no money, still owed a lot. Huabei, Jiebei [花呗、借呗 — Alibaba credit loan services, commonly used in China] and such, none of them he could repay. No new credit was being granted. He didn’t want to borrow anymore either. Walking on foot was fine.
19:50 in the evening.
The wind was growing stronger. Song Qing was wrapped in the whirling cold wind and only felt colder and colder, both in his body and deep in his heart.
With his head down, it was like he could see the blood in his body that had just barely warmed beginning to cool inch by inch. All the anticipation and longing for the future peeled away, leaving behind only bone-piercing cold like shards of ice.
He couldn’t stay any longer. He had to go.
That was what he thought—but still, he refused to move. He didn’t know exactly what he was waiting for.
Another few minutes passed. From far off, footsteps finally sounded.
He looked up almost instantly and saw that girl—same as in the hospital lobby earlier—running toward him. Maybe because her strides were wide, she was panting hard. In her arms, she was holding a flowerpot.
That flower’s appearance, and the bottom of the pot, both looked very familiar to him.
As she got closer, even the chipped corner looked strikingly familiar.
Song Qing thought carefully. If it wasn’t the one on his windowsill, then which one was it?
“This flower—I asked around for a long time to find its owner. It doesn’t belong to the hospital. It was a gift from a friend of a patient. I chatted with the patient a bit, and they agreed to let me take it.”
This flower had been brought by someone visiting the patient when they were hospitalized. It still had roots. The patient thought it’d be a pity to throw it out, so they kept it nearby to take care of it.
At first it had bloomed, very prettily. But within a few days, the blossoms withered. The patient thought it was ugly and tossed it farther away, leaving it on the windowsill at the corridor’s end and didn’t bother with it anymore. It slowly started to wither—until it encountered Song Qing.
Nan Zhi handed him the flower. “You hold onto it for now. Later we’ll put it in the car.”
After she finished speaking, she went behind him again and continued pushing the wheelchair forward.
Song Qing, holding the flower, stared stiffly.
She went back just to get the flower?
This flower had been right by his hospital bed. He looked at it every day. In fact, he knew all of its details, and had even guessed and imagined its future.
But held in his hands, viewed from such a close distance, those stretches that had grown out and turned green became even clearer—the changes in detail were even more complete than what he had previously outlined in his mind.
Song Qing touched the leaves, and couldn’t help but recall—before, in that noisy corridor and that cramped hospital bed, how many times he had silently asked in his heart:
When will I, too, be able to return to spring from withered wood?
The reason this flower had turned green again was because it had been soaked by a sliver of rain that drifted in from the window. Thinking carefully—
It seemed like he, too, had received that “rain” drifting in from beyond the heavens.