For the next few days, my fever raged, leaving me comatose. Wenshu told me I constantly dreamed, muttering either "Older sister" or curses directed at some bastard. Despite cranking the air conditioning down, sweat poured off me incessantly, and I grew weaker by the hour. During this time, the hospital convened several consultations, and after analysis, the doctors concluded that intense psychological trauma had severely exacerbated my condition. I was moved to a private room, overseen by Wenshu and the attending physician, Wang Jue, with no visitors allowed except immediate family.

Wang Jue was a man’s name, though it was a male doctor who managed the critical care patients in the private ward. Compared to the doctors in the general ward, he was exceptionally dedicated. I remember when I was in the big ward; after morning rounds, we rarely saw a doctor again, usually only catching a nurse. But Doctor Wang was different—he insisted on "early requests" and "evening reports," dropping by intermittently for casual check-ins as well.

The first person I saw when I finally regained consciousness was him. He was standing by the IV stand, adjusting the drip rate. I vaguely opened my eyes, catching his silhouette, and for a moment, thought it was Li Xiaoshu. Seeing me awake, he rushed over, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead, then smiling, "Finally, the fever has broken." Only then did I clearly see this man was entirely different from Li Xiaoshu: dark, tanned skin, small eyes, a flat haircut, not particularly tall, slightly pudgy, and looking very solid.

After that, he visited my room whenever he had a spare moment. Wenshu and he practically took turns staying with me. Slowly, I pieced together from Wenshu that the hospital had officially categorized me as a critical patient with suicidal tendencies, requiring 24-hour observation. This duty should have fallen to family, but since my older sister couldn't be located, the hospital assigned them to take turns caring for me.

Sighing, the mere thought of my sister felt like a hollow ache in my chest. What had become of her? How did we get entangled in this messy business? Thinking any further made my chest constrict until I couldn't breathe.

No, I have to act. If I don't save my sister, who will? I am her only reliance in this world.

Old Shao was the only person who came to mind who could help both my sister and me. He knew the story of the stamp album, had seen that old photograph, and had hinted that my sister’s situation was perilous. He surely understood the hidden secrets buried within this chaotic affair. But why did something have to happen to him right at this critical juncture! If I had agreed to his earlier proposition, I wouldn't be so passive now. That’s just how it is—you don’t cherish what’s easily obtainable until it slips away, and then regret is endless.

Just as I was dwelling on regret over Old Shao, Wenshu walked in carrying a stack of magazines. Her face was radiant, and she hummed a little tune in a voice like silver bells. "Xiaoyu, look what I found in the reading room?"

"What is it?" I reached out and took the stack she handed me; it was a full collection of Stamp World.

"Old Shao's family donated these to the reading room. They are completely clearing it out. The librarian said that after Old Shao passed away, the postman never delivered Stamp World again, and no one read this kind of magazine anymore, so they planned to remove them from circulation. I saw every issue was still here, and I thought you might like them, so I brought them all over."

That’s wonderful; this was set up by Old Shao's family! Most likely his little wife who was fond of stamp collecting. Right, Old Shao is gone, but his little wife should still be around. Through these magazines, perhaps I can find her.