Morning light slanted in through the window crack, falling across the edge of the cradle. Chen Wuya's fingers still rested on the rail, his fingertips able to feel the faint current of air stirred by the child's breathing. He did not move, nor did he dare to, afraid of startling this tiny creature who had entered the world only a few hours ago.
Only when that little face relaxed and the corners of its mouth lifted faintly, as though it had tasted something sweet in a dream, did he slowly withdraw his hand. His palm had gone numb, yet he could not bear to wipe it.
He rose to his feet and padded silently to the bedside. Bai Zhi was sleeping deeply. Her complexion was much better than it had been last night, her breathing even, the damp hair at her brow already tucked behind her ear. He reached out to feel her forehead. Her temperature was normal, and at last the stone in his heart fell to the ground.
Just as he turned to add firewood, a sudden whimper came from the cradle—brief and aggrieved, as if someone had pinched the child's throat and then let go. He immediately spun back, crouching down to find the baby's brows knotted together, tiny mouth puckered, on the verge of tears.
Instinctively, he raised his hand. True qi had already gathered at his fingertips—he had used this move to stabilize Bai Zhi's pulse last night; could it soothe the child this morning as well? But no sooner had the thought arisen than something seemed to click in his mind, like the creak of an old wooden door being pushed open.
[Follow what comes first; do not disturb its breath.]
It was the system's long-absent voice, fragmented and intermittent, like half a warning