The line went dead
For a long moment, Zhang Jie just sat there—motionless, listening to the faint echo of her brother's heartbeat through the machine. The steady rhythm that had once been her nly comfort now carried a strange, fragi
Nurses moved like shadows across the room, their soft shoes whispering against the tiled floor. A curtain fluttered faintly, touched by a thin thread of wind. The beeping of monitors and the quiet hum of air-c
His fingers twitched.
At first, Zhang Jie thought her tired eyes were playing tricks. But then she saw his chest rise a little higher, his lips parting ever so slightly as if fighting against an invisible weight pressing him down.
"Doctor," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Doctor!"
The door opened. White coats entered. Machines beeped faster. Words were exchanged—clinical, hurried. But for Zhang Jie, everything slowed, blurred into the rhythm of her own heartbeat.
And then—his eyes opened.
They flickered, weak at first, before settling into a dazed stare that reflected only confusion and exhaustion. His pupils adjusted to the harsh fluorescent light above. His breathing deepened, unsteady but real.
Zhang Jie clasped her mouth to suppress a sob. "Bing… oh my God… Bing, can you hear me?"
His head turned toward the voice—slowly, painfully—as though gravity itself resisted the movement.
"Jie?" His voice was faint, raspy, uncertain. "What… what's going on?"
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. She took his hand, warm at last after months of icy stillness. "You're awake. You're finally awake."
He blinked, his eyes moving restlessly around the room. The walls, the window, the unfamiliar machines—it all looked strange, unreal.
"Where am I?" His voice cracked. "What happened to me?"
The doctors answered in fragments—medical terms, percentages, mentions of long comas and recovery chances. But he wasn't listening. His mind stretched backward, searching for something to anchor him.
He remembered the night of the charity gala—the lights, the music, the drink in his hand. He remembered smiling at the cameras, shaking hands, pretending he was fine even when his body had begun to fail him.
He remembered bidding farewell to Mian-man after a congratulatory party. How panic surged through him when a truck ran him over, the phone slipping from his hand as the world tilted into darkness.
And then… nothing.
Just a deep, unending void.
He swallowed hard. "How long… have I been here?"
Zhang Jie hesitated. "It's been… some time. You were barely conscious when they brought you to the hospital.You had surgery. There were complications."
He frowned. "Some time? How long exactly?"
She took a deep breath. "Almost eight months."
His eyes widened in disbelief. "Eight months?"
He sank back into the pillow, the weight of lost time pressing heavily on his chest. Eight months—gone, like pages torn from the book of his life.
He tried to remember faces, voices, anything from that emptiness. There was… something. A faint sound, maybe laughter, soft and warm. But it slipped away the moment he tried to grasp it.
"I… I can't remember," he murmured, his brow furrowing. "There's something missing. Someone…"
Zhang Jie leaned forward. "It's okay. The doctors said your memory might take time to return. Don't force it."
He nodded slowly, though unease flickered in his eyes. Somewhere deep within, there was a hollow space that memory couldn't fill—a feeling rather than a thought. A lingering warmth, a scent he couldn't name.
Outside, the sun broke through the grey clouds, spilling soft light across the hospital room. The world was moving again, but Zhang Bing's heart felt strangely still.
Elsewhere, across the city, Angel sat by her small window, the evening light painting her face gold. A gentle wind carried the scent of rain through the open curtains. Her eyes were swollen, her voice hoarse, yet she managed a small smile as she traced the edge of a photograph.
It was a picture she had taken of Zhang two weeks before his death—at least, before she believed he had died. He had been sitting beneath a jacaranda tree, pale but smiling, his hair tousled by the breeze. She remembered how he had asked her to read to him, how he had fallen asleep halfway through a story about forgiveness.
She pressed her forehead against the photo. "You finally found peace," she whispered. "I hope you did."
But even as she spoke, a strange unease stirred in her chest—an unexplainable feeling that something in the world had shifted.
She didn't know that far away, the man she mourned was breathing again. Alive. Awake. But a stranger to the part of himself that had once loved her.
Zhang Bing closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his lids, he saw flashes of something he couldn't name—dust swirling in red light, the sound of a woman's laughter, a soft voice saying "You're not alone anymore."
He opened his eyes again, breath unsteady.
"Jie," he whispered faintly, "was there… someone who stayed with me? When I was sick?"
Zhang Jie froze, caught off guard by the question. "Why do you ask?"
He shook his head slightly. "I don't know. I just… feel like there was someone. Someone who didn't leave."
Her gaze softened. She reached for his hand again, squeezing gently. "Rest, Bing. You need time. The world will still be here when you're ready."
He didn't answer. His eyes drifted toward the window, where sunlight spilled like gold dust on the floor.
Somewhere, he thought, there was a missing piece of him—a name, a face, a memory that still lingered like a faint echo in his chest.
And as he drifted back into a light sleep, he whispered a name he didn't remember learning.
"Angel…"
Would you like the next part to follow Angel's side — where she begins to sense something strange, maybe hearing rumors or seeing news about Zhang Bing's miraculous recovery — or would you prefer to stay with Zhang Bing, showing his slow recovery and growing confusion as that name keeps surfacing in his dreams?