After her sister-in-law left the room, Jianglai still didn’t answer the call. Once it cut off, she messaged the caller on her chat app explaining she was sick.

She could keep delaying work by citing illness, but even using up all her vacation days would only buy a few days. Eventually, she’d have to face reality. A week or two might be manageable—but after a month? If she still looked like this, no amount of willpower would save her job.

Jianglai couldn’t afford to lose this position. She’d clawed her way up from a junior clerk to department head over twelve grueling years. The thought of all that effort, all that sweat poured into this career—she’d never surrender it lightly.

Only the company President or board members could remove her. The board only showed up to collect dividends at year-end. Real power lay with the current President—a woman who’d taken charge years ago, pushing aggressive youth-focused reforms. She had little patience for old-timers like Jianglai.

Jianglai had always kept her distance, meticulously avoiding missteps. But now? No good solution came to mind. One wrong move, and she’d be unemployed…

She’d thought she’d dodged the thirty-something layoff crisis. Instead, it waited here. Was losing her job truly her only option? Resentment burned in her chest, but what could she do against such sudden upheaval?

Her mind churned. Ignoring problems worked when they stayed buried—but now, piled before her, they left her helpless. *Could I beg the President…? But how?*

Her head throbbed alongside her sore backside. The thought of losing everything made her question her own worth. *What if I just tell the President alone? Would she understand?*

Jianglai scoffed inwardly. She barely knew the woman. Why would she help a stranger? Worse—the President wasn’t trustworthy. If word leaked about Jianglai’s condition, rogue labs might hunt her down. Even without that… peace would vanish from her life.

Her new gender weighed on her constantly. Though easier than the first brutal days, the loneliness still cut deep. Years of solitude had forged ironclad pride. She refused to show weakness—especially to those she loved most. Her daughter. Her sister-in-law. Her late wife.

When her wife died, Jianglai had sworn never to falter. Never to burden others with her pain. For so long, she’d walked alone. Now… she ached for someone to lean on. *If only you were still here…*

Her phone glowed in the dim room. She opened her gallery, fingers hovering over a cherished photo—two smiling faces, taken before their wedding. No matter how many phones she’d owned, this image never left her.

The corners of her eyes grew flushed. Tears gathered, trembling on the edge of falling. At the last second, she squeezed her eyes shut. *I won’t cry.* Even without looking, her wife’s face filled her mind. *"I miss you so much…"*

——

——

When Yingyu Chi returned with the safflower oil, she found Jianglai asleep on the sofa. Curled tight under a thin blanket, she looked fragile. Thankfully, the living room’s heater hummed steadily—without it, bare skin under that flimsy cover would’ve meant a fever by dawn.

Yingyu set the oil on the table and knelt beside the sofa. She just watched Jianglai’s face, her usual playful smirk gone.

She’d studied this woman for over a decade. One glance told her everything. No one understood Jianglai like she did—not even Jianglai herself.

All Yingyu wanted was to see her smile. To ease that crushing weight. *I’m not a child anymore…*

She considered carrying Jianglai to bed. But even asleep, Jianglai’s brow stayed furrowed—a shallow sleep easily broken. Instead, Yingyu fetched her own thick quilt. She draped it gently over Jianglai’s shoulders, then lay down beside her on the spacious sofa.

Jianglai was so slight, curled into the corner. Yingyu reached out, fingertips brushing the crease between Jianglai’s brows. So many things she longed to do… but in the end, she simply covered Jianglai’s hand with her own.

*"Maybe your heart holds only my sister… but mine has always held only you."*

Silent companionship like this—unspoken, unrequited—was enough. For now, it was enough.