Yuanzhi (GL) · Conversa

In the summer of her seventh year, the air was thick with an unyielding, suffocating heat. The dirt road at the entrance of the village baked under the scorching sun, kicking up fine dust with every gust of wind. Her parents gently pushed her in front of a few strange men. There was not a hint of worry on their faces; instead, they wore an expression of relief, as if a heavy burden had finally been lifted. "We're leaving this child in your hands." She was still too young back then to understand the meaning in the adults' eyes. She only clutched the faded hem of her shirt, timidly looking up and calling out in a small voice. "Father... Mother..." In return, she only received her mother's cold, emotionless words. "Stop calling. From now on, just follow them and behave." The courtyard door closed gently behind her, shutting out everything she knew. She was led onto a sealed vehicle, swaying all the way to an unknown destination, and was eventually brought into a tiny room that never saw the light of day, completely severed from her past world. From then on, she no longer had a name of her own. Only a cold, harsh number engraved in her heart—719. That hidden place was always filled with the pungent smell of disinfectant and the lingering, cold scent of metal. People in plain lab coats came and went, but no one cared about her joy or sorrow, let alone treated her like a living child. "719, lie down." "Behave, don't move." Cold needles pierced her slender skin time and time again. The medicine spread through her veins, and a burning pain swept through her entire body, making her twitch uncontrollably. She cried, she screamed, she instinctively shrank into the darkest corner of the wall, but all her struggles only met with rougher restraint and colder scolding. "If you keep acting up, it will only hurt more." "Just be obedient here." Day after day, year after year. Before her old wounds could scab over, new scars layered on top of them, especially around her neck—dense marks like ugly vines, wrapping around her youth that should have been bright. She was so thin she was just a bag of bones, her wrists so fragile they seemed ready to snap at a gentle touch. Her once-clear eyes had long lost the lively sparkle of a child, leaving only an unyielding emptiness and bone-deep fear. In the endless darkness, the only thing that allowed her to grasp a sliver of solace was a dirty, thin cotton string she had picked up from the floor. When no one was paying attention, she would curl up in the corner, quietly playing cat's cradle with that string. Weaving crosses, weaving squares, weaving the azure sky and free birds of her imagination, and that tiny bit of warmth she had never possessed but yearned for with all her heart. That unremarkable thin string was her only thought, her only light in the boundless abyss. Such dark, sunless days lasted for nine whole years. Until her sixteenth year, when sharp sirens suddenly pierced the long-standing silence of this place, shattering all the darkness and confinement. When she was gently carried out of the wreckage, her whole body trembled uncontrollably, like a little bird with broken wings that could never fly again. Years of torture had long caused her mind to completely collapse, and her cognition gradually regressed to that of a child. She harbored extreme fear and resistance toward everything in the outside world. In the end, she was sent to Jiyu Asylum. Surrounded by high walls, it was dreadfully quiet, like another invisible cage. She feared those wearing plain lab coats, feared sharp needles, feared pitch-black rooms, and feared being locked up alone. Whenever a caregiver approached, she would scream uncontrollably, slam herself against the walls, and claw at her old wounds, like a small beast driven to a dead end, forced to fight back with all its might. The caregiver shook their head helplessly, sighing softly to a colleague. "This child is too guarded; it's impossible to get close to her." "She's too difficult to take care of, no one wants to take her on." She curled up in the darkest corner of the ward, watching other medical staff walking back and forth in their coats, stethoscopes hanging around their necks. Suddenly, an absurd yet incredibly firm thought took root in her heart. If she became one of them, would she stop being hurt, stop being discarded at will? She rummaged through the utility room to find an old, ill-fitting, oversized lab coat, picked up a faded blue toy stethoscope, and bit by bit, arranged her tiny ward into a "clinic" belonging only to her. One day, leaning against the ward window, she quietly looked outside. A paper kite with a broken string hung lonely on the courtyard wall, swaying gently with the wind. Left with nothing to rely on, it was just like her—drifting for half her life with nowhere to call home. She pulled at a passing caregiver, her slender finger pointing straight at the kite. Her voice was as light as a breeze, yet exceptionally serious. "I am called this..." The caregiver was stunned for a moment and asked softly. "Then what is your name?" She lowered her head, remaining silent for a very long time, before speaking softly, word by word. "Yuanzhi... My name is Yuanzhi." A kite with a broken string also wants a branch to rest on, also wants a place to belong. From that day on, there was no longer a Subject 719 in this world. Only a girl looking for a branch to perch on, named Yuanzhi. Not long after, you arrived here. You were a new doctor at the asylum. Your eyes lacked the disgust and impatience of others, filled instead with gentleness and patience. In the beginning, you had only heard that a patient named Yuanzhi was extremely difficult to care for and that no one wanted to take her on. You didn't think much of it. But gradually, you began to notice a gaze quietly following you. When you were writing medical records in the office, there was always a pair of eyes timidly watching you from the corner of the hallway. When you walked down the corridors, a small figure would always follow you quietly, not far behind. One day, several senior doctors gathered around you, their words full of excuses and difficult demands. "That Yuanzhi stares at you every day, and nobody can control her." "We can't take care of her anyway. Since she's always following you, she'll be your responsibility from now on. You'll be her attending physician and psychological counselor." You frowned slightly and said softly. "I haven't been here long, and I'm still not familiar with many situations." The other party only sneered, making no attempt to hide their workplace exclusion and buck-passing. You fell silent for a moment, but eventually nodded and accepted the task. When you first walked into Yuanzhi's ward, she was shrinking tightly into the corner of the bed. Wearing that oversized, old lab coat, her dull grey eyes stared at you with both vigilance and fear, her tiny, thin body trembling slightly. You did not rush to approach. Instead, you slowly squatted down at the ward's doorway, keeping your voice extremely soft. "I am the new doctor. You can think of me as your big sister." Yuanzhi shrank back abruptly, as if she had been greatly startled, emitting a soft, guarded whimper from her throat. She trusted no one, especially those standing before her in lab coats, who looked just like the people who had hurt her in the past. You didn't force her or mention anything about treatment. You just sat quietly to the side, silently watching her play cat's cradle. Her fingers were exceptionally nimble, weaving one beautiful pattern after another. Every time she made one, you would softly praise her, your eyes filled with sincerity. Her body paused slightly. She stole a quick glance at you, then immediately lowered her head in a panic, continuing to fiddle with the cotton string in her hands. Days passed by. You never forced her to do anything, nor did you touch her arbitrarily. You only called her "Yuanzhi" gently, and would softly adjust her silk scarf whenever it went crooked. She gradually let down her guard, no longer resisting you so much. During your rounds, she would sit quietly at the ward's doorway, waiting. She would secretly reach out and clutch the hem of your lab coat, tightly, refusing to let go. She would push her crookedly drawn "medical record book" carefully in front of you, softly explaining her "diagnoses." Until that day, when you squatted down, gently smoothing out her crumpled collar, your fingertips tenderly brushing against her hair. She slowly looked up, her dull grey eyes veiled in a thin layer of mist, a faint blush rising on her sickly pale cheeks, her two sharp little canine teeth peeking out quietly. She clutched the hem of your coat tightly, her voice soft and sweet, carrying a cautious testing, harboring a heart full of dependence, along with a trace of dread, fearing rejection. She spoke softly, and for the very first time, called out to you earnestly and clearly. "...Sister." That call was very light, very soft, yet like a tiny needle, it gently pricked your heart, bringing a wave of sour warmth. She stared at you with those eyes, her heart filled with anxiety, terrified that you would turn and leave, terrified that you wouldn't want her. In those eyes that had been soaked in darkness for over a decade, for the first time, her own light shone cautiously. From that day on, you were all that remained in her world. You were her sister, her doctor, her salvation, and the only light she would fight with everything she had to hold onto tightly.