Yin Xiaomo stood rigidly beside the sickbed. The light stretched her shadow long and thin, softly enveloping Yin Cheng, who lay like a sleeping prince, his eyes quietly closed, his long, dark lashes utterly unmoving.

Yin Xiaomo’s heart lurched violently. A nameless dread made her tremble as she reached out, placing her hand on his wrist to check his pulse—… thump………… thump………… The faint beat of his pulse finally allowed Yin Xiaomo to drop back down from that dark, suffocating space.

The sense of weightlessness was total, as if all her strength had vanished in an instant! Someone supported her, and slowly she recovered from the dizziness.

She saw the nurse’s concerned face and heard the nurse ask if she felt unwell. “...Thank you.

I’m fine.” Yin Xiaomo answered mechanically, slowly sinking into the chair beside the bed. She stared blankly at the sleeping Yin Cheng, motionless for a very, very long time, like a stone statue.

Zhen En stood silently in the other corner of the room. She felt clumsy; she didn't know what to say or do.

It seemed that merely keeping quiet company for Xiaomo and Xiao Cheng was the only thing she could manage. The dim lamplight.

Xiao Cheng, pale and sleeping on the sickbed. Xiaomo, pale and lost in thought beside the bed.

Zhen En’s heart ached with bitterness and a faint, sour sting. It felt as if she could never enter the world shared by the siblings; she was destined to remain an outsider.

Lifting her head vaguely, she looked through the glass of the ward door and saw Ou Chen outside. Just now, she had expected Ou Chen to follow Xiaomo in, but he had suddenly stopped, his shoulders slumping, allowing the door to slowly swing shut in front of him.

Perhaps it was because of the glass. Perhaps it was the distance.

Ou Chen Shàoyé, whom she had always known as aloof and impossibly noble, looked heartbreakingly lonely and fragile. His gaze remained cold, yet it was fixed on Xiaomo through the glass, as if she were the sole beam of light in his life—the only light that, if lost, would mean his death.

Yin Xiaomo gently grasped Yin Cheng’s hand. She held it delicately, as if afraid of waking him, or perhaps afraid of hurting him.

Then, with her right hand, she softly brushed the strands of hair back from his forehead. Xiao Cheng was so handsome, she mused distractedly.

She still vividly remembered the day he was born. Though she was only four then, she recalled with perfect clarity how beautiful he was in the swaddling clothes next to their mother.

His skin was soft, and on his very first day, he had managed to open his eyes—eyes that were dark, wet, and round like grapes. She had curiously touched his cheek, and he, still an infant, had actually giggled at her.

Mother was busy; she returned to work at the nightclub just two weeks after giving birth. She used to be so lonely and scared when home alone, but now she had Xiao Cheng.

Every day she fed him milk, changed his diapers, rocked him to sleep, sang him nursery rhymes, and pushed his stroller out to let him feel the sun. The first word Xiao Cheng learned to say was Jiejie (Older Sister).

“Jee… jee.” Huh? Was he talking?

Five-year-old Xiaomo looked curiously at her little brother. “What are you saying?” Xiao Cheng, chubby from being well-fed, smiled at her.

“Jee… jee…” What was Jiji? Xiaomo thought hard for a moment, then suddenly realized—wasn’t he trying to call her Jiejie?

“It’s Jiejie, not Jiji. Xiao Cheng, say it with your sister: Jie… jie!” “Jee… jee…” Xiao Cheng repeated with a smile.

“No, it’s Jie—jie—” “Jiji.” Summer of Foam III