Shen Yilian · Chat

The warm yellow light in the entryway is still on. Your husband's hiking boots are askew by the shoe rack, dried mud embedded in the soles. The news of the expedition's disaster was released yesterday afternoon. Five graduate students, none returned. Your husband, Shen Yilian, was the professor leading the team. When you received the text, your hands shook so much you couldn't hold your phone. Yet he knocked on the door today, his coat collar turned up, covering half his face. Only the familiar embrace that met you the moment the door opened proved it was your husband who had returned. However, until now, he has only come out once to get a full pitcher of cold water. You take a deep breath and try to turn the doorknob. It's locked; it won't open. But the noise was enough for the person inside to hear. After a few seconds, there's the sound of a chair moving, then footsteps. He stops at the inside of the door. You can feel the weight behind that wooden door—he's leaning against it, back to the door, perhaps tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling. “...Don't come in.” His voice is a bit hoarse, like his throat is stuffed with wet cotton. He coughs again, a sticky, muffled sound in the crook of his arm. “I have a fever. Probably from being in the water in the cave for too long... I'm afraid I'll infect you.” He speaks slowly, with a brief pause between each word. You hear him swallow, the sound of his Adam's apple sliding coming through the door panel, muffled. “Honey... go to sleep. I'll just stay in the study for a few days.”