The old man’s bed was by the window.

According to the nurse, his original spot had been near the door—actually quite convenient for nurses to help him downstairs or to the restroom.

But he refused. He insisted on the window-side bed, farthest from the door.

I reached the third floor, staring helplessly at the row of wards. A young nurse passed by, supporting a trembling elderly woman toward the restroom. Moments later, she emerged alone, sighed wearily, and stood by the door scrolling her phone.

I stepped forward. “Excuse me, which ward is Han Yiwen in?”

She glanced up, pointed to that very ward. “What took you so long? He’s inside—bed by the window.”

I offered an apologetic smile, nodded, and entered.

The room carried that stubborn hospital scent: aged bodies mingled with disinfectant.

Elderly patients were slowly rising. Some sighed heavily, trembling while putting on shoes, pressing call buttons for help. Others sat alone, clutching basic phones, staring blankly at screen photos with lost expressions, as if yearning for something.

Sunlight streamed through the window at the far end, illuminating one bed.

I walked quietly toward it. The old man hadn’t noticed me—bored, he gazed outside. I followed his gaze: the tea egg stall right beyond the hospital gate.

I set the fruit basket on the bedside table. “Old man, craving tea eggs again?”

He froze, turned quickly—then blinked in confusion at my face.

He’d mistaken me for Old Han.

Seeing his face, a pang of sadness tightened my chest.

He’d always bragged about his youthful charm: neat center-parted hair, unmatched handsomeness. Now, deep wrinkles crisscrossed his ashen-gray face. He looked like a candle flickering in the wind.

I remembered him sighing before the mirror, mourning his once-thick black hair, buying endless hair growth products. Now, chemo had left him utterly bald—scalp bare, age spots visible.

He stared at me a long moment. Suddenly, a hand shot from the covers—*flick!*—a sharp tap on my forehead.

Stunned, I clutched my head. He chuckled mischievously. “I was just thinking—I needed fresh air, no one to help… and you show up! Hurry, help me up!”

His arm emerged, thin and brittle as a withered branch. I touched it, uneasy. *Is wandering safe post-surgery?*

Just then, the nurse returned the elderly woman to her bed. The woman trembled while settling in. The nurse resumed scrolling her phone.

I hesitated. “Miss… taking the old man out for air, okay?”

She didn’t look up. “Go ahead.”

I helped him into the wheelchair beside the bed. His eyes lit up, beaming. I gripped the handles. “Old man, where to? Craving anything after lying down so long?”

“We’ll see!” He waved grandly. “Go! Buy me a whole bag of tea eggs!”

He gripped the arms, surveying the ward like an emperor at court. Other patients watched with quiet envy.

The nurse twitched her lips, silent.

*Chemo patients drink congee… tea eggs?* But her indifference reassured me.

“Alright! Though tea eggs alone are salty—want a drink? I’ll buy Longjing tea later. Good for you!”

An old man nearby lowered his phone, glancing up resentfully. “Old Han, your grandson’s so filial.”

I twitched my lips inwardly. *His grandson’s at home—and became a granddaughter. She can’t come.*

The old man puffed proudly like a general astride a steed. “Of course! Xiao Lu—giddy-up! Tea eggs!”

*Using me like a pack mule.* I pushed the chair toward the door. “Tomorrow I’ll bring Longjing. Maybe my water heater too—keep it by your bed for tea.”

His face brightened. “Bring it!” Then softened. “Nah… you live on instant noodles. No heater, you’d starve.”

I laughed. “Spicy hot pot shop downstairs—I won’t starve. Want herbal tea later?”

“Buy me iced black tea.”

I glanced at the nurse—still glued to her phone, giggling. “Miss, any post-op diet rules? I’m really buying it.”

She flicked us a glance. “Him? Let him eat whatever he wants.”

My heart sank. I said nothing, pushing him out silently.

He acted as if he hadn’t heard, smiling. Muttered curses at Old Han for not visiting—then excused him aloud: “Must be busy… he’ll come.”

I listened in silence.

We rode the elevator down. Morning air crisp, sun warm. He took a deep breath, squinting contentedly at the sky.

“Old man, anything else? KFC?”

He smiled thoughtfully. “KFC… Xiao Feng loved that as a kid.”

Words stuck in my throat. I pushed on.

His smile deepened. “Xiao Feng was so clever, so obedient… Guanyin’s gift to this lonely old man…”

I stayed quiet.

“One New Year’s,” he continued, “his parents were out. He clung to me: ‘Grandpa, KFC! KFC!’ I took him a few times. Fried shredded potatoes, buns with fried chicken, cola—all bad for you.”

I forced a smile. “Tea eggs are healthier.”

He nodded, pulled five crisp red bills from his gown pocket. “After tea eggs, we’ll try KFC. Never had it—just tasted two fries once. Today I’ll see…”

He offered the money back. I pushed it gently away. “No need, Old man.”

“Take it. I won’t spend it all.” He paused. “Your lucky money.”

At that, he grumbled softly, sorrowful: “Xiao Feng… even busy, he should visit. I saved this for him…”

His withered hand still held the bills.

*I hadn’t visited family this New Year. Parents abroad. At twenty, this frail hand’s offering might be my last lucky money. And I won’t see him many more times.*

Silent, I took the red notes.

I checked my phone—Young Master Feng should be up.

“Old man, name it: foie gras, truffles, tiger meat, elephant leg… Tell Xiao Lu. I’ll get it.”

He shook his head. “I want tea eggs.”

I’d planned to borrow big from Young Master Feng for a feast. But he only wanted this. Helpless, I pushed him toward the gate.

The stall was run by a kind-faced auntie stirring her pot. Few customers; she’d watched us approach.

I handed her fifty yuan. “Five, please.”

“Coming!” She gave forty-five change, lined a bowl with a bag, scooped five eggs, handed it over.

I set it down, peeled one carefully. Tea and spice aroma rose. I handed it to him.

Morning streets were quiet—only bundled passersby hurried by.

He took a small bite. A gentle smile bloomed.

I peeled mine. Springy white, soft yolk, not dry. I added broth. Rich tea and spice lingered on the tongue. *I loved these as a kid. That scent always fit chilly mornings.*

*Crack the shell just right after boiling—fine cracks, shell intact. Simmered constantly at stalls, flavor deepens. I could never replicate it at home.*

I smiled sideways. “Old man, tasty? Want ten more?”

He ate with solemn focus, tiny bites, ignoring me.

I turned back toward the street.

After a long silence, his whisper drifted: “Delicious… so delicious…”

So faint it seemed the breeze might steal it away.

I ate my tea egg.

The morning wind felt unusually gritty.