Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Yuan Shiyu’s surgery lasted from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon.

For six hours, Song Wantang sat there motionless, as if she had been nailed to the bench.

She didn’t cry anymore, nor did she ask any more questions.

She simply read that letter over and over, from beginning to end, until the creases were nearly worn smooth by her fingertips.

The letter didn’t mention the times they were in love.

Yet, when she closed her eyes, her mind was filled with those fragmented images that had almost been forgotten.

They were very poor during the first year of their marriage. Yuan Shiyu was still just an attending physician, and his night shifts were frequent and grueling. Her bridal shop had just opened, and during its most difficult period, she only managed to rent out a single dress for the entire month.

One night, during a heavy rainstorm, the shop’s roof leaked. She was alone, crouching on the floor to move bolts of fabric. Yuan Shiyu rushed over directly after finishing a night shift, his suit trousers rolled up to his calves, helping her hang the wedding dresses higher one by one.

By dawn, she had fallen asleep leaning against a fabric rack.

Yuan Shiyu sat beside her with an account book and whispered, “Song Wantang, once I’ve made it, I’ll make sure you only have to focus on designing. You won’t have to worry about the rent ever again.”

Later, he really did it.

Her shop became more and more stable, and he gradually rose to the top of the cardiothoracic surgery department.

They had once been so good together.

So good that she never imagined a day would come when she would be sitting outside an operating room, holding his last letter, waiting for a verdict on life or death.

At 4:07 PM, the doors finally opened.

The lead surgeon removed his mask, his face etched with exhaustion.

“The surgery is over. We’ve brought him back for now, but he’s not out of danger yet. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.”

Song Wantang stiffened. It was as if she had suddenly lost all support; she had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing.

The doctor asked, “Who is the family?”

She opened her mouth, her throat terribly hoarse.

“I am his wife.”

When she spoke those words, even she was stunned for a moment.

Not his ex-wife, not someone on the verge of divorce.

His wife.

When Yuan Shiyu was wheeled into the intensive care unit, his face was so pale it was almost transparent, and there was no color in his lips. Various tubes and wires were connected to him, and the rise and fall of his chest was so faint it was terrifying.

Song Wantang watched him through the glass. She suddenly remembered their wedding day, how he had stood under the lights in his black tuxedo and said to her, “Wantang, from now on, no matter what happens, I will tell you first.”

He had broken his word.

But she wasn’t much better.

They were clearly the two people who should have laid their wounds bare for each other to see, yet in the end, one relied on silence and the other on misunderstandings, pushing each other to where they were today.

A nurse handed out his personal belongings in a transparent bag.

Inside were a phone, a wallet, a fountain pen, and an old voice recorder that had been polished shiny from use.

At the very bottom of the bag, pressed down, was a folder.

On the cover was written: “If I remain unconscious after surgery, please have Wantang handle this.”

Song Wantang’s heart skipped a beat as she slowly opened it.

The first page was a supplementary intent for organ donation that he had signed in advance.

The second page was a guardianship authorization letter written to her.

The third page held a yellowed log of hospital phone calls.

The date was exactly the night Niaoniao had her accident.