The first task was to unpack their luggage. There wasn't much—pitifully little, in fact. The only electronics were a palm-sized fan from a phone credit bonus, an antique laptop Qi Yan treated like a family heirloom, a scanner bought with saved New Year's money, and an aging rice cooker.

Qi Yan's art supplies—brushes, paints, inks, xuan paper, and watercolor paper—filled another box. These were his livelihood. Next came bedding: quilts, bamboo mats, and blankets. Most space was taken by their worn clothes, all bought two years ago. They hadn't bought new ones since.

Leftover items included Qi Yan's cherished art books, Qi Ran's bed desk, pens, notebooks, novels, and study guides. These had helped Qi Ran pass time in the hospital. Nurses said she often studied there. She must have longed to return to school, to live the vibrant life she deserved. Without the accident, she'd be frantically preparing for college entrance exams now.

Qi Yan made the bed first. Then he lifted his sister from the cold, hard wheelchair onto the somewhat soft mattress. Her frail body felt as light as a feather. Was this really a healthy weight for a teenage girl? If Qi Yan set a small goal, it would be to fatten her up.

As kids, they'd pushed two beds together for all four to sleep. Now, only one bed frame existed. Aunt Chunxiang had been so thoughtful; Qi Yan couldn't trouble her more. He had a bamboo mat and quilt to sleep on the smooth gray cement floor. It wasn't bumpy or slippery like tiles, though it got dirty easily.

Qi Yan opened another box. Colorful clothes spilled out—haphazardly stuffed due to time pressure. "This is..." He picked up a pure white cotton triangle panty. Without blushing or batting an eye, he said, "My sister's underwear."

Why so calm? Not because he was gay or impotent. Since her accident, he'd washed nearly all her intimate wear. After initial immoral flashes, he'd grown immune. Nurses handled meals, bathing, and hospital gowns, but not undergarments. Sending them to a laundromat seemed wasteful. Hand-washing was practical.

Qi Yan was used to it, but the owner wasn't. Especially as he stretched the panty, testing its elasticity. It was two years old; usability was doubtful. He checked for holes, absorbed in the task. He didn't see the hardcover notebook flying at his face. It hit him squarely.

"Ouch... that hurts! What was that for?" Qi Yan covered his face. Qi Ran gripped the bedsheet, face flushed crimson, glaring like an angry cat.

[I can sort my own clothes.] She wrote on her notebook. Was she worried about overworking him? Such a thoughtful sister.

"It's fine, leave this to your brother! That's what brothers are for. Afraid I'll do something bad to your underwear? Relax! No perverted brother gets excited over his sister's underwear." Qi Yan patted his chest.

Her reply was another flying notebook. Qi Yan caught it between his hands just before it hit his nose. Barehanded notebook-catching was his useless signature skill—only effective against throws from her weak arms. She never wasted blank notebooks. This one must have writing for him.

Qi Yan eagerly flipped it open. Only to find: [Idiot!] [Pervert!] [Creep!] [Blockhead!]

"Hey now, that's no way to address your brother!" Qi Yan smiled bitterly. Handling her underwear wasn't normal, but these were extraordinary times. "You should be used to it! Even your dress was hand-washed by me!"

Qi Ran's dress was originally long, now shortened to barely cover her knees. The shoulders strained tight. Bought two years ago, it no longer fit her blossoming figure. Sometimes, Qi Yan found it hard to look away.

[I just don't want you to get used to it...] She wrote, then scribbled it out completely. After blackening the page, she rewrote: [Let me do my own things!!!]

Three exclamation marks meant serious anger. Her fury meter was full. Of course, she couldn't unleash apocalyptic moves—just throw notebooks. She had plenty, won from childhood essay contests. Mostly participation prizes; first places were rare and often fixed. Rewards were usually pens and notebooks.

"Alright, alright. I'll dump the clothes out. You fold them one by one, okay?" Qi Yan raised his hands. Letting her do things gave her purpose. She was stubborn; overprotecting backfired. Qi Yan knew this well.

One night, if he hadn't left his phone in the ward, her suicide attempt might have succeeded. She'd cut her wrists with a fruit knife to avoid burdening him. Though it failed, her scars constantly reminded Qi Yan: protect her with everything, even if it shattered him.

Qi Ran nodded.

Qi Yan had fewer, plainer clothes to sort. He cared little for looks—clean clothes and neat hair sufficed. Paint and ink stained his clothes daily. He even had a dedicated "work uniform" covered in stubborn pigments.

After folding, he realized: no wardrobes, no cabinets. Nothing resembling storage. Aunt Chunxiang's efforts made it feel slightly homely, but it was far from complete. Only one dining table existed. The kitchen counter was bare—no knives, cutting boards, pots, rice, seasonings, or bathing supplies.

Helplessness washed over Qi Yan. For the first time, life felt unbearably hard. In high school and college, he'd survived on instant noodles or congee with pickled radish and vegetables—just filling his stomach. With Qi Ran, he needed proper nutrition: meat, balanced meals.

He wrote a shopping list to avoid forgetting. Then he plugged in the fridge, storing Qi Ran's uneaten pudding and drinks inside. "Xiao Ran, put folded clothes by the bed!" A temporary fix; he couldn't re-stuff them into boxes.

"I'm buying essentials. Call Aunt Chunxiang if anything happens." Qi Yan left his phone. Qi Ran's phone was useless—dead SIM, dying battery. Getting her a new one wasn't feasible soon. His funds were tight. Hospital bills loomed, though Su Xueqing granted a two-month extension. Without it, he couldn't even cover basics.

"I'll be back soon. Don't open for strangers." Qi Yan added, though her condition made opening doors impossible. He locked the door anyway; Aunt Chunxiang had a spare key.

Qi Ran watched his retreating figure through the window. Her lips parted slightly, throat moving gently. No sound escaped. She slumped into the clothes pile, lips tight, face full of frustration. A lip-reader would have caught her unspoken words: "Be careful on your way."