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Join the ServerSu Yutao heard that person drop something in front of her.
The sound of cloth scraps hitting the floor. Cotton drifting down. Plastic beads rolling across the ground.
The voice came from above, faint: “Your penguin. Still want it?”
Su Yutao stopped breathing.
She reached out, groping on the floor.
She touched cloth scraps. Cotton. Scattered beads.
She searched desperately, pushing the fragments aside, reaching further.
Nothing.
She couldn’t find Qiansui.
Only cloth scraps. Only cotton. Only beads.
Qiansui was gone.
Qiansui had been torn apart.
Finally, her tears came—the kind from exhaustion so deep it numbed the heart.
She lay on the ground, gathering the fragments into her arms, hugging them, curling up, her whole body trembling.
A rasping sound came from her throat, like an animal with its neck clamped, or a broken tape recorder.
Lin Qingxue looked down at her.
The little blind girl lay on the floor, clutching those scraps of cloth and cotton, curled into a ball, shaking like a leaf.
A hoarse “heh heh” escaped her mouth. No tears flowed, but it was worse than crying.
Lin Qingxue watched for a moment, then turned and walked toward the bedroom.
At the door, she stopped, and her voice drifted back: “Next time you don’t behave, it won’t just be a toy.”
The door closed.
Footsteps faded.
Su Yutao lay on the floor, hugging the fragments.
Qiansui was gone.
Her system was gone.
That soft voice was gone.
The voice that said, “I’m here.” Gone.
She was alone again.
Blind, mute, alone.
Su Yutao clutched the fragments tighter.
She lay on the floor, curled up, the rasping in her throat growing softer, fainter, until it stopped.
She didn’t move.
Just lay there, holding the scraps.
Qiansui was in her arms—no, somewhere else. Su Yutao couldn’t hear them.
She thought they were destroyed.
But Qiansui was perfectly fine.
Lin Qingxue had placed them on the cabinet beside her, sitting quietly.
They watched Su Yutao lying on the floor, holding those torn pieces, thinking they were dead.
They wanted to call out to her.
But her emotional fluctuations were too intense right now; she couldn’t hear their call.
Qiansui could only stay on the cabinet, watching Su Yutao alone on the ground, clutching fragments that weren’t them, curled up.
Qiansui whispered inside: I’m here… I’m here…
Su Yutao couldn’t hear.
She thought Qiansui was gone.
She lay on the floor, hugging the fragments.
She lay on the floor, pulling the scraps into her arms, curling up. Cloth scraps, cotton, plastic beads.
All cold.
No warmth. No heartbeat. No soft voice.
Qiansui was gone.
Her system was gone.
The voice that called her “Host” was gone. The voice that said “I’m here” was gone. The thing that gave her ten minutes without pain each day was gone.
She was alone again.
Blind, mute, alone.
Even the last bit of something was gone.
Su Yutao lay on the ground, fingers gripping the cloth scraps, nails digging into her palms.
She remembered that person saying, “Next time you don’t behave, it won’t just be a toy.”
She remembered the sound of that woman’s neck being twisted, that man’s head being crushed.
She remembered Qiansui saying, “I’m here,” Qiansui saying, “You’re not mute,” Qiansui saying, “You still have me.”
Now nothing was left.
With Qiansui gone, what did she have to fear?
Alone anyway. Blind and mute anyway. Kept like a dog anyway.
Why live? Waiting to be torn apart too?
Su Yutao got up from the floor.
She didn’t know where the strength came from, but she launched herself upright and lunged toward the bedroom.
Her leg hit the corner of the coffee table. Pain.
She didn’t feel it.
Her hand slammed into the wall. Pain.
She didn’t feel it.
She just charged in that direction, toward where that person was.
Her mouth open, a rasping sound from her throat—not a cry, not a scream, but a noise squeezed from the marrow, like the growl of an animal about to bite.
She crashed into the bedroom door, her hands slapping against it.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The door wasn’t locked; it swung open with her blows. She stumbled inside, fell, then scrambled up.
Qiansui was gone. She didn’t want to live.
But before she died, she would bite that person.
Inside the bedroom, Lin Qingxue was sitting on the edge of the bed, on the phone.
Hearing the door slam open, she turned and saw Su Yutao on the floor, then getting up and lunging at her.
That little face was pale, eyes red and terrifying, mouth open, emitting a hoarse hiss—like a cornered beast.
Lin Qingxue frowned slightly, said “Hold on” into the phone, and set it aside.
Su Yutao reached her, hands flailing in the air.
She didn’t know where to grab, only that she had to move forward, to touch this person, to bite her, to hit her, to avenge Qiansui.
Her hand touched something—that person’s arm.
She seized it, nails digging in.
Lin Qingxue looked down at the hand, not moving.
Su Yutao’s other hand joined, her whole body lunging forward, mouth open, aiming for the arm.
Lin Qingxue reached out and grabbed her chin.
Su Yutao’s mouth was clamped shut.
She could only make muffled sounds, still clawing, her nails leaving red marks on Lin Qingxue’s arm.
Lin Qingxue looked at her and gave a soft, cold laugh: “What? Willing to die over a broken toy?”
Su Yutao didn’t hear.
She only heard the sound of Qiansui being torn apart, only thought of the cloth scraps, cotton, beads.
She struggled, scratching at Lin Qingxue’s arm, kicking against the bed frame, like a mad thing.
Lin Qingxue held her chin with one hand and grabbed both her wrists with the other, pinning her to the bed.
Su Yutao couldn’t move. She could only open her mouth, making muffled cries, tears unable to fall, but her whole body shaking.
Lin Qingxue looked down at her, her voice flat: “Is that broken penguin really that important?”
Su Yutao nodded desperately.
Important.
More important than life.
Lin Qingxue was silent for a moment.
Then she let go, reached for something on the nightstand, and pressed it into Su Yutao’s arms.
Furry. Soft. Bulging.
Su Yutao froze.
She reached out and touched it—it was Qiansui.
Whole Qiansui.
No tears, no loose threads. Still sewn up as Shen Nian had fixed them.
Qiansui was in her arms, and finally that soft voice sounded, choked with tears: “I’m here… I’m fine… She didn’t tear me… She tore another doll…”
Su Yutao hugged Qiansui tighter, burying her face in the plush.
Tears couldn’t flow, but her whole body shook.
Not from fear. From the tremor of having something back after losing it.
Qiansui whispered in her ear: “I’m okay… I’m fine…”
Lin Qingxue watched her curl up and clicked her tongue. She picked up the phone and put it back to her ear: “Continue.”
On the other end, Mole’s voice came through, hesitant: “Sister Lin, what was that sound? Are you—”
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