In the courtyard stood a loquat tree, its branches now forming a lush, umbrella-like canopy.

Mo Xuan pushed Shen Bingyao’s wheelchair beneath it. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, spilling across the girl’s pure white cotton dress and lighting up her eyes—where surprise and shyness gently swirled.

Ever since her paralysis, Shen Bingyao had lived a reclusive life. Her world had shrunk to this courtyard; she rarely stepped beyond the gate. For whenever she ventured out, people’s gazes would linger on her legs, leaving her unsettled and disheartened. More than anything, an indescribable sorrow welled deep inside.

Once, she could run freely across this land. After the accident, even walking became a luxury.

Yet she never blamed Xiao Jing. To her, Xiao Jing was the most precious sister in the world—someone she’d do anything for.

*If only… if only someone would visit more, listen to me…*

Each time Shen Bingjing left for school, this thought surfaced in Shen Bingyao’s solitude, dimming her eyes a little more.

Aside from her sister, Mo Xuan was the person from outside the family who spent the most time with her.

Walking behind her, Mo Xuan pushed the wheelchair with care, perfectly matching her pace. He couldn’t see her face, but the way she tilted her head back and reached toward the light suggested quiet joy. A soft pang stirred in him.

He recalled how Shen Bingyao always wore ankle-length dresses—white or dark, never pants, never shorts. He understood: though her legs were lovely, the thought of the wheelchair filled her with deep-seated unease. She believed strangers’ eyes traced her legs on the street, whispering *she must be injured*. Wasn’t that obvious? Yet she stubbornly covered them—perhaps only then could she reclaim a fragile thread of dignity.

Shen Bingyao withdrew her fingers, watching sunlight slip through them like air. Tilting her head slightly, she murmured, “Mo Xuan… could you push me to that corner?”

“Sure.” His ready agreement felt almost unreal.

Her eyes flickered. *He must be bored… pushing someone like me. He came for Xiao Jing. Even the cake was probably just an afterthought.* In her memory, his warmth had only shown once—during their first meeting. Mixed emotions swelled; her lips parted, but no words came.

Mo Xuan caught every shift in her expression and offered a radiant, gentle smile. *How cold I was before,* he thought. *Just pushing her brings her such sunlight-like joy. Yet this easily satisfied girl later became obsessively infatuated with me… Why?* Something felt off. He’d uncover the truth.

Silently, he guided her toward the corner. Shen Bingjing had planted flowers there to cheer her sister up. But with little gardening skill, the few sparse blooms looked malnourished and weary.

Shen Bingyao flushed with quiet embarrassment—she was the one who tended them.

Mo Xuan picked up the watering can nearby and sprinkled the soil. “They haven’t been watered in a while. About to wilt.”

“Oh… oh.” She nodded repeatedly—a long-ingrained habit of agreeing with him.

“I grow flowers too,” he added lightly, “though mine are even sicker-looking.” (A white lie to spare her pride.)

She smiled instinctively. He had that effect—lifting her mood without effort.

“Just water them regularly. With this sunlight, they’ll thrive.”

She kept nodding. *If Xiao Jing were here, she’d nag about exact timing and amounts… turning it into a UN summit.* But Shen Bingyao simply followed—no questions, no resistance. Her gaze stayed fixed on his face. Just looking at him filled her chest with wordless happiness.

After his gardening tips, Mo Xuan faltered. If she’d chimed in, it’d be easier. But she sat like a silent statue, smiling. Still, he wouldn’t neglect her this time. His eyes drifted to her legs wrapped in cotton. Remembering the future where she walked again, he blurted, “How are your legs? Any progress?”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

For years, with Xiao Jing’s company, she’d visited doctors. *You might walk again—with medicine and daily massage.* Alone, she’d strip the dress, massage her calves’ acupoints, waiting hopefully. Sometimes in dreams, tiny tingles raced through her legs—a strange, joyful current. That hope kept despair at bay.

Mo Xuan beamed. *Good. She has hope.*

“I guessed.” Joy made him careless. The next words slipped out: “Could I… see your legs?”

Silence fell.

Mo Xuan froze as if struck. Shen Bingyao’s face flushed crimson. Both looked away, hearts pounding.

Flustered, he opened his mouth to apologize—but the shy girl spoke first:

“If it’s you… it’s okay.”

As if fearing doubt, she lowered her head, fingers clutching the hem. Bangs hid her moist eyes. Resolved, she lifted the fabric slowly. First, delicate ankles. Then fair, straight calves—smooth, flawless, artfully slender. Wheelchair life had made them unusually thin, almost fragile. Mo Xuan held his breath, gaze tracing flawless skin upward. She kept lifting without hesitation, head bowed stubbornly—as if meeting his eyes would drain her strength. When slender, pink-tinged thighs appeared, dizziness washed over him. *If I asked to touch… she’d probably say yes.*

“Um… Shen Bingyao…” His eyes darted; breath quickened.

“Mm…” She trembled slightly, still not looking up.

Just as words failed them—

“Sister—Mo Xuan—where are you?” Shen Bingjing’s voice rang out perfectly.

They snapped back. The skirt dropped.

Mo Xuan gripped the wheelchair and pushed away almost hastily. Shen Bingyao kept her head bowed the whole way, refusing to glance at him.

Shen Bingjing, fresh from laundry, tilted her head. “Where were you? Hey—Sister, why’s your face so red?”

“N-nothing,” Shen Bingyao stammered, avoiding her gaze.

Mo Xuan, prickling under Shen Bingjing’s look, stepped back with a nervous laugh. “Getting late. I should go.”

Uncharacteristically, Shen Bingyao didn’t wave goodbye.

Shen Bingjing, ever the polite host, insisted on seeing him out.

Only after they vanished did Shen Bingyao straighten her trembling frame. She patted her chest, sighed softly, and rubbed her legs together restlessly.

*Grateful Xiao Jing interrupted… or I’d have lifted it to my neck. But… why now? The moment was almost perfect.*

Still—Mo Xuan today felt different. Not warm concern, but no longer cold neglect.

Her heart lifted.

Under the dusk’s gentle glow, the girl hummed a cheerful tune, softly.