The waiting area outside the operating room at Jiankang Hospital was quiet, the kind of heavy silence that pressed down on the chest and made every small sound feel amplified. Soft overhead lights cast a sterile, cool glow over the rows of chairs and the polished floor, while the faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of coffee from a nearby vending machine.
Through the large windows, the afternoon sun filtered in, painting the space in warm golden tones that did little to ease the tension hanging in the room. The distant hum of hospital activity—soft footsteps, occasional announcements over the intercom—created a constant, watchful backdrop.
Su Wanyan sat in one of the chairs, her posture tense. For the past few hours, she had been waiting, her mind a whirlwind of worry and suppressed memories. Her eyes were fixed on the closed doors of the operating room, as if willing them to open with good news.
