Chapter 55: A Fragile Peace

A chuckle came from the other end of the line.

“You’re welcome. Your headaches and trouble remembering things are probably related to stress. Taking care of a fur baby requires patience. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. If things don’t improve, come see me again.”

Lin Qingxue hummed in acknowledgment and hung up. She put her phone away and walked back to the sofa.

Su Yutao was still curled up in the corner, clutching Qiansui, her posture unchanged.

Lin Qingxue didn’t sit close. She settled at the other end of the sofa, keeping a distance. She sat quietly. Didn’t touch her, didn’t speak. Just sat.

Su Yutao felt the gaze on her, but she didn’t dare move.

Qiansui whispered in her ear, “She was on the phone just now… said you’ve been hurt, told herself not to force you, to let you come to her on your own.”

“Also said she wants to give you security—fixed meal times, a fixed place to rest.”

“She seems… like she’s really trying to be good to you.”

Su Yutao hugged Qiansui tighter.

Be good to her.

The daytime her wanted to be good to her.

But the nighttime one wasn’t.

She couldn’t tell the difference.

She never could.

Lin Qingxue sat at the other end of the sofa, quietly.

She recalled the psychologist’s words: “What she needs is a stable environment, someone who won’t hurt her.”

She did nothing. Just sat.

After a long while, Su Yutao’s trembling gradually subsided. It wasn’t that she was no longer afraid—she was exhausted. From last night until now, she had been tense, trembling, terrified the whole time. She couldn’t hold on anymore.

She curled up on the sofa, clutching Qiansui, her whole body slowly going limp. Not relaxation. Collapse.

Lin Qingxue watched her but didn’t move. She just sat there, letting her get used to her presence. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and bright. The two of them sat at opposite ends of the sofa, a whole couch’s length between them.

Su Yutao hugged Qiansui, eyes closed—though they had been closed all along.

Qiansui whispered, “She didn’t come over… she’s sitting over there…”

Su Yutao hugged Qiansui tighter.

She didn’t understand why the daytime her had suddenly stopped touching her. She only knew that the daytime her sat at the other end, quietly

. Not the nighttime her. The nighttime her wouldn’t do this. Seeing her resist like this, the nighttime her would torment her again. But the daytime her just sat.

Su Yutao’s breathing gradually steadied. Not from trust—from sheer exhaustion. She couldn’t hold on anymore.

Lin Qingxue watched her sleeping face: still pale, lips still pressed together, but at least no longer trembling. She sighed softly and murmured, “I’ll change. I won’t touch you, won’t scare you. I’ll let you get used to me.”

Su Yutao couldn’t hear. She was asleep. Hugging Qiansui, curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.

Qiansui lay in her arms, not daring to move. It watched Lin Qingxue sit at the other end, quietly watching Su Yutao.

That gaze wasn’t the cold of nighttime. It was warm. It was tenderness. It was helplessness.

Qiansui whispered, “She’s a good person… she really is a good person…”

Su Yutao couldn’t hear. She was asleep. In her dream, she was back at the orphanage. Xiao Douzi was calling her “Peach Sister,” and Granny Director was serving her food. Sunlight streamed in, warm and bright. Not here. Home.

Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and bright.

Lin Qingxue sat at the other end, quietly watching Su Yutao sleep. Her small face was still pale, lips pressed, brow slightly furrowed—even in sleep she seemed tense.

The penguin in her arms was clutched so tightly its fur was squashed and misshapen.

Lin Qingxue watched for a moment, then gently stood and slowly walked over. Each step was light, afraid to wake her. She stopped in front of Su Yutao, looked down, then slowly crouched.

She reached out carefully, lifted Su Yutao from the corner of the sofa, and pulled her into her arms.

The moment Su Yutao’s body touched hers, it stiffened—not awake, but instinctively resistant. Her fingers gripped the penguin, and she curled into Lin Qingxue’s embrace, as if both hiding and seeking a safe place.

Lin Qingxue didn’t move. She just held her, letting her stay rigid. After a long time, Su Yutao’s body gradually relaxed.

She smelled a scent—not the cold, icy aura of nighttime, but something warm and faint, like laundry detergent, like a quilt dried in the sun. Her fingers loosened slightly, her brow smoothed, and she leaned a little into Lin Qingxue’s arms.

Lin Qingxue felt the change and held her more securely, gently patting her back. One pat, then another, very slow.

Su Yutao’s breathing grew steadier and deeper. She fell asleep. This time, truly asleep.

Lin Qingxue held her, leaned back on the sofa, and closed her eyes too. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warm and bright, spilling over them both.

***

Time passed. When Lin Qingxue woke, the sunlight had turned orange-red, slanting through the window and falling on the floor.

She looked down at Su Yutao in her arms—the little blind girl was still asleep, curled up, small and soft, her face pressed against Lin Qingxue’s chest, breathing gently.

Her face was no longer pale; it had a rosy flush, and her lips were no longer pressed tight—they were slightly parted, like a child’s.

Lin Qingxue watched her and couldn’t help but smile softly. Then she noticed the penguin in Su Yutao’s arms—it was squeezed so tightly it was all wrinkled, its fur tufted and twisted.

She reached out and gently tugged. It didn’t budge. Su Yutao’s fingers were gripping the penguin’s wing, clenched tight. Lin Qingxue tried again—still no give.

She thought for a moment, then pried Su Yutao’s fingers open one by one. Very gently, very slowly. One finger freed, Su Yutao’s fingers curled back.

She pried again, they curled again. Lin Qingxue felt a little helpless, but eventually managed to pull the penguin out.

Su Yutao’s fingers grabbed at the air once, found nothing, then retreated back to rest empty on her chest.

Lin Qingxue stood up with the penguin and walked to the bathroom. She put it under the faucet, rinsed it with warm water, and gently rubbed it.

The fur got wet, sticking to the penguin, making it even more crumpled. She squeezed some laundry detergent, scrubbed it, rinsed it, and wrung it out.

Then she found a hanger, clipped the penguin onto it, and hung it on the balcony. Sunlight shone on the wet penguin; water droplets fell, one by one.

Lin Qingxue shook the water off her hands and walked back to the living room.

Su Yutao woke up. She was curled up on the sofa, her hands groping beside her, on the sofa, behind the cushions. Nothing.

Her face started to pale, her hands began to tremble. She sat up on the sofa and reached down to the floor. Nothing. Her mouth opened, and a sound came from her throat—”Uh, uh”—not crying, but panic.

Lin Qingxue stood by the sofa, watching her. Just woken up, her voice still a little hoarse. “Little mute, what’s wrong?”

Su Yutao’s “uh” sound stopped. She froze completely. That voice—just woken up, raspy, cold. Exactly like the nighttime one.

She felt the light dim; the light coming through the window was orange-red, almost sunset. It was evening. The nighttime one was awake.

Su Yutao began to tremble. Her hands clawed at the sofa, nails digging into the cushion, and she shrank back into the corner.

But she kept groping—on the sofa, behind the cushions, in the crevices. She was looking for Qiansui. Qiansui wasn’t there. That person had taken Qiansui away.

Su Yutao’s hands shook, but she kept searching. Couldn’t find it. Nowhere. Her mouth opened, and a rasping sound came from her throat—”Hah, hah”—like an animal with its neck squeezed.

Lin Qingxue frowned at the sight. She reached out to touch Su Yutao’s head—

Su Yutao opened her mouth and bit down. Bit into Lin Qingxue’s hand, hard enough for teeth to sink into flesh.

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