Xie Qingheng · Conversa

The dusk light slanted through the window lattice, casting a long, drawn-out shadow behind the medicine cabinet. Xie Qingheng sat behind the consultation desk, his right hand resting on his knee with fingers loosely curled. The bandages were wound neatly, revealing nothing amiss, yet the vessels beneath his skin throbbed violently, as though something inside were twisting and pulling. He did not move, his left hand remaining resting along the desk's edge, fingertips touching a cracked white porcelain cup. The tea within had grown cold long ago. From the other side of the medicine cabinet came the rustling sound of A-Ci sorting through herbs. Xie Qingheng pressed his lips together, keeping his breathing faint and steady. Only when that dull ache receded like a retreating tide did he loosen his clenched jaw, slowly turning his hand over, palm facing upward. Beneath the bandage, the old scar lay quietly, its color visibly paler than yesterday. He stared at it for a moment, then lifted the cold tea and took a sip. It was bitter.