Qi Yan didn’t idle on his way home. He pasted flyers for car wash services along bustling streets—without promotion, no customers would come knocking.

It was the second day working at Uncle Zheng’s auto repair shop. Qi Yan’s routine had shifted slightly: cooking rice first upon returning home, then showering while it steamed.

After all, the stench of motor oil clinging to him would taint even the food he cooked—and that smell was what his sister hated and feared most.

The accident had stolen her voice. Her legs. Their parents. And now, Qi Yan washed cars. Life was full of cruel ironies.

Every evening before full darkness fell, Qi Yan wheeled his sister for a stroll. Fewer cars meant less fear—a small step in her healing.

But today, Qi Yan had other thoughts. Two days of earnings lined his pockets, suddenly thick with cash. His mind wandered: a cheap domestic phone for his sister. New underwear.

If work kept this pace, tight days would ease. Hospital debts might finally shrink.

"Xiao Ran," he said, "it’s late to say this, but I want to give you a gift for leaving the hospital. Tell me what you’d like."

His sister lifted a slender finger, pointing straight at a nearby two-yuan convenience store.

"It doesn’t have to be something this cheap. It’s a celebration gift."

She shook her head firmly, then wrote in her notebook:

*[Anything from you is enough.]*

She’d always been sensible. Before the accident, she’d repay him for small gifts—never owing, never taking for granted.

It might have seemed distant, but that was normal sibling life.

Now, nothing was normal. Orphaned, they clung to each other, drawing warmth from the last embers of family.

The sister who’d refused to depend on him now couldn’t survive without him. Her suicide attempt that night had been a desperate bid to lighten his load.

If he bought her a phone today, she wouldn’t refuse—couldn’t refuse, voiceless as she was.

But she’d brood for days, burying her guilt. Her condition teetered on the edge of severe depression.

Dr. Su Xueqing had warned him: *"Stay by her side. Encourage her. That’s the only way to keep her from spiraling."*

Expensive gifts needed justification—or they’d backfire.

Her birthday was October 8th. Half a month away. A surprise then would be welcomed.

Decision made, Qi Yan wheeled her into the empty convenience store.

Her eyes darted over plastic trinkets, settling on a red string bracelet with a tiny bell.

"This one?" Qi Yan lifted it, shaking gently. *Jingle-jingle.*

Qi Ran nodded eagerly.

"Boss, checkout!"

"Coming!"

She thrust out her left wrist. Qi Yan fastened the bracelet—its red thread perfectly covering the scar on her wrist. A past they both avoided.

Footsteps, wheelchair wheels, and bell chimes tangled into a new rhythm. Not beautiful, not moving—but it stirred life into their dull routine.

Qi Yan watched his sister play with the bell. Her lips curved slightly. Her eyes glowed. *This is progress*, he thought.

She bathed every other day now—a change she’d insisted on. A girl who loved baths, choosing less to ease his burden.

Tonight was bath night. Qi Yan heated water, carried her to the washroom—and saw the red bracelet still on her wrist.

"Xiao Ran, take it off for the bath?"

She shook her head fiercely, shielding the bracelet with her hand.

Her devotion to this cheap gift warmed him, but rules were rules.

Qi Ran’s eyes welled up, wide and pleading like an abandoned puppy’s.

"Water stains cheap red string," Qi Yan coaxed. "It’ll ruin the bell."

Her teeth grazed her lower lip. Slowly, she unclasped it and pressed it into his palm.

"I’ll guard it well. Five minutes, like always—I’ll wash your hair. Don’t push yourself."

As routine, hair washing, foot massage, and phonetic drills passed without incident. His sister had grown used to skipping underwear at home.

Partly because she owned only one proper set—saved for evening walks. Partly because bare skin felt freer.

Qi Yan didn’t know if this habit was good or bad.

He should’ve been numb to her bare back, her bare feet by now. Yet every bath, his heart hammered like he was sprinting a hundred meters. Harder each time.

He knew why. But he buried it. *Just tired. Sleep will fix it.*

*Jingle-jingle—*

Fresh from the bath, Qi Ran scribbled furiously in her notebook, the bell chiming with each stroke. She thrust the page at him:

**SISTER’S RULES**

*Rule 1: One jingle = I’m fine. Don’t worry.*

*Rule 2: Two jingles = I’m hungry.*

*Rule 3: Three jingles = I need the toilet.*

*Rule 4: TBD…*

So the bell was her voice. A workaround for notebook limitations. *That’s why she chose it.*

"Clever," Qi Yan ruffled her damp hair. "Really clever."

But was this right? Helping her adapt to silence and stillness—when he’d wanted to *cure* her?

There was another treatment: driving her back to the mountain road where the crash happened. Shock therapy to jolt her mind awake. High success rates overseas. But some patients shattered under the trauma.

Qi Yan had rejected it. He couldn’t risk even 0.1%. Not when she was all he had left.

*This is enough. Even if she never walks or speaks again.*

He’d promised to care for her forever. Without that promise—what was left? Chasing that ridiculous, laughable dream?