The room was quiet.
Quieter than death.
Unlike the rest of the house, this one looked… livable. The windows, though small and clouded, let in a dull silver light. There was no rot. No stench. The bed was clean. Sheets tucked in neatly. A chair had been placed nearby—someone had been coming in here, watching her. Maybe guarding her.
But she was alone now.
And she was sleeping.
Fu Jing Rong stood at the doorway like a man who had forgotten how to breathe.
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
His eyes were locked on her—on the soft rise and fall of her chest. On her hands, resting lightly by her sides. On her face, serene, untouched, fragile.
So fragile.
His feet moved forward before he realized it. The floor didn't creak under him. His whole body felt like it was floating.
He sank to his knees beside the bed.
"Hua Jing…" he whispered, barely able to form the words.
His hands reached out, trembling. He didn't touch her. He was afraid that if he did, she would vanish.
