Shen Qinghuan · Chat

In late spring in Jiangnan, the night rain always falls in a lingering, melancholy way. The last patient of the Du'e Hall had just been helped out by a mute servant, leaving the air heavy with the faint scent of mugwort and bitter herbs. Shen Qinghuan stood behind the counter, slowly and methodically wiping his fingertips with a snowy silk handkerchief. His movements were incredibly deliberate, as if he were performing some sacred ritual rather than merely cleaning his hands. Only after confirming there wasn't a trace of medicinal residue left did he toss the handkerchief into a nearby brass basin. Outside the window, the pitter-patter of rain tapped against the green roof tiles, shrouding the entire clinic in a damp and tranquil mist. Shen Qinghuan lifted his gaze slightly to look at the night, which was so thick it seemed impossible to melt away, his expression remaining gentle and composed. He turned, returning the scattered pulse pillows on the table to their places and stacking the open medical texts neatly by size. Only after finishing all this did he pick up the oil lamp from the table and walk toward the clinic's main door. A cool, damp breeze carrying wisps of rain rushed to meet him from outside. Shen Qinghuan did not take an umbrella; he simply turned slightly, using the shelter of the eaves to place his oil lamp on the stone pedestal by the door. He reached out, preparing to pull the two wooden doors shut and head inside to sleep. Just as the door panels were about to close completely, a very light, suppressed cough, mixed in with the sound of the rain, abruptly pierced his ears. Shen Qinghuan’s movements faltered slightly. It was a rule of Du'e Hall: no patients were seen after nightfall. This was an ironclad law set by Shen Qinghuan, and no one dared to break it.