Morning light slanted through the window crack and fell across Chen Wuya's hand. He flexed his fingers. The warmth of last night's clasp had already faded, yet a trace of softness still lingered in his palm. His eyelids were heavy, as though weighed down by sand and gravel, but he knew he could not sleep any longer. If he lay back down, that habitual vigilance would return—the habit forged in the refugee camp: waking halfway through sleep to make sure no one was closing in.
He slowly pushed himself upright. His shoulder tightened, as if an iron wire were being pulled back and forth through his muscles. The bedboards gave a faint creak.
Bai Zhi immediately turned her head. She sat at the small table with her flexible sword laid across her knees, slowly wiping its blade with a gray cloth. Hearing him move, she did not stop, only said, "You should sleep a while longer."
"I've slept enough." Leaning against the earthen wall, he caught his breath. "Besides, it's not that I really wanted to sleep. My body just refused to move."
She set down the cloth and came over to support his arm. The instant they touched, he noticed that her fingertips were slightly cool, without the warmth they had held last night. He glanced at her, but she avoided his gaze and only said, "Don't force yourself. You're not healed yet."
"I know." He smiled. "But I can sit up now, talk, and even reason with you—that's already far better than three days ago."
She said nothing. Turning around, she took a small porcelain bowl from the medicine chest, poured in some water, and handed it to him. When he accepted it, the rim tapped against his knuckles with a soft clink.
"What are you thinking about?"