The kitchen was small. Lingering there would only get in the way.

Seeing Shen Bingjing in good spirits, Mo Xuan didn’t disturb her—just gave a quick wave and left.

Immersed in joy, Shen Bingjing didn’t even notice when he slipped away.

Before dinner, Mo Xuan decided to wander nearby.

Oddly enough, though he’d visited this courtyard many times and knew the outer yards well, this inner yard still felt unfamiliar.

He’d never walked those winding corridors or approached the tightly shut rooms—let alone stepped inside.

Subconsciously, he respected their privacy. Intruding uninvited felt deeply disrespectful.

So this time, he stayed near the living room.

Simple, worn furniture. A spotless floor. A clean ceiling.

A European-style candlestick chandelier swayed gently in the draft, wind chimes beneath it jingling softly.

He remembered how simply the Shen sisters lived.

After their parents passed, the inheritance was meager. This old courtyard was all they had. To make ends meet, they lived frugally. Shen Bingjing once said her sister managed all finances—she’d just ask when needed.

Still, Shen Bingjing felt uneasy. As an able-bodied girl, she believed in earning her keep. Mo Xuan had seen her handing out flyers during summer break—too young for much else. Tiring work, but she always smiled through it.

Mo Xuan paused before a bookshelf.

He suddenly realized: whenever memories of the Shen sisters surfaced, Shen Bingjing—the lively, laughter-filled girl—always came first.

Images of her quiet, gentle older sister, Shen Bingyao, rarely appeared.

He could rattle off Shen Bingjing anecdotes effortlessly.

But for Shen Bingyao? He’d likely stammer, struggling to recall a single clear moment.

*So in my past life… was I really that cold to her? And yet she still held on?*

Mo Xuan frowned, surprise and guilt twisting inside. A faint crack throbbed in his chest.

Just then—a heavy thud from the room to his left, followed by a sharp gasp of pain.

Mo Xuan tensed, rushing over and instinctively grabbing the doorknob.

Then he froze. *Shen Bingyao’s room. Can’t just barge in.*

He released the handle, hesitated, then called softly: “Shen Bingyao? Are you okay?”

Silence. He held his breath, ears straining.

After a long pause, a weak voice drifted out: “I’m… I fell. Can’t get up…”

“I’ll get Shen Bingjing!” He dashed to the kitchen—but she was gone.

The pot simmered gently. Rice steamed in the cooker. Chicken scent filled the air from the pressure cooker. Chopped vegetables sat on the cutting board. Dinner wasn’t ready. *Where did she run off to?*

Anxiety clawed at him. *She’s sick, immobile… what if she’s hurt?*

“Damn it,” he muttered, sprinting back. “You alright?”

“Can’t… move…” Her voice trembled with frustration.

He couldn’t wait anymore. Heart pounding, he gripped the handle. “May I come in?”

“…Okay.” Her reply held a flicker of resolve.

He pushed the door open.

Darkness. Curtains drawn tight. Only furniture outlines visible.

A faint floral scent lingered—Shen Bingjing’s morning ritual to lift her sister’s mood.

Mo Xuan’s pulse quickened. *I shouldn’t be here.*

“I’m here…” Her whisper came from the corner, shy and small.

He glanced—and instantly looked away, cheeks burning.

Shen Bingjing’s warning echoed: *I just bathed her. Don’t come in.*

Now he understood.

Shen Bingyao lay sideways on the floor, legs motionless, partially exposed.

Dim light couldn’t hide her slender frame—smooth shoulders, delicate arms. She’d tried to rise; her chest shifted slightly with the effort.

Noticing his gaze, she fumbled for the quilt, yanking it down—but it covered only half her body.

Mo Xuan forced his eyes to the mirror, took a slow breath, and cleared his throat. “How’d you fall?”

As he stepped closer, she tugged the quilt frantically—covering one spot, exposing another. Trapped on the floor, she finally stilled, defeated.

Without looking down, Mo Xuan knelt and smoothed the quilt over her completely.

Flushed crimson, she buried her face. “I… needed the restroom…”

Her sister was cooking, phone out of reach. She’d tried to reach her wheelchair—slipped. And now *he’d* seen her like this.

Mo Xuan kept his tone light, though heat crept up his neck: “Guess you’ll wait for Shen Bingjing.”

This was beyond his help.

“Mm.” She nodded quietly, voice barely audible. No surprise—just quiet acceptance.

Alone with him, she always grew tense—not from fear of *him*, but fear of displeasing him.

It had always been this way.

After her accident, everyone smiled and said, “We’ve got it.” But she saw the impatience—even in her parents. Who truly has endless patience for a helpless patient?

After they passed, relatives grew sharper: “Eat if you want,” “Hurry up,” ignoring soiled clothes. Even when she wheeled herself to wash them, no one offered soap.

This life carved her careful nature. She constantly monitored others’ moods, terrified of being a burden.

Shen Bingjing saw her as strong—always smiling through hardship. She never knew how many nights her sister cried silently under the covers.

Mo Xuan’s presence brought her quiet joy… and fresh anxiety. *He must think I’m trouble. I should say, “Go on, I’m fine.”*

But the words wouldn’t come.

If she could wish for anything—it was just a little more time.

His silent presence nearby.

Even for a moment.