When the snow stops, I'll find you

Five steps

Friday. 9:02 AM. ICU, 9th floor.

The hallway smelled like iodine and bad coffee.

Ruan Zhi walked five steps.

Su held one arm. Gu Yanhuai held the other. Chest tube gone that morning. Just the nasal cannula and her own two feet. A drain site covered in gauze. Tape pulling when she breathed.

Five steps to the window. Five steps back.

She collapsed into the chair. Gray-faced. Sweating. Triumphant. “Did it.”

“You did,” Gu Yanhuai said. He handed her water. Already open. Straw in. “Twice what yesterday was.”

“Still hate it.” She drank. Hand shook. Water spilled. “When do I leave?”

“Two days,” Su said. She checked the pulse ox. “If you keep this up. If your oxygen stays above 94 on room air. If you can walk to the bathroom without turning blue.”

Ruan Zhi looked at the monitor. 96. “Today, then.”

“Not today,” Dr. Zhang said from the door. White coat. Tired eyes. She’d been here since 6. “But soon. You’re healing fast. Younger lungs. Stubborn heart.”

Gu Yanhuai caught the word _heart_. Looked at Dr. Zhang. Jaw tight.

She smiled. “Figure of speech, Mr. Gu. Her actual heart is perfect. EKG is clean. Echo is clean. It’s the rest of her that’s the problem.”

Ruan Zhi flipped her off. Weak. “My rest is fine.”

11:30 AM. Yun Ding board call. Gu Yanhuai took it in the hall. On speaker. Ruan Zhi could hear through the glass.

“—catastrophic loss,” CFO Liu was saying. Voice tinny. “Shanghai pulled. They’re citing ‘leadership instability.’ We lost 40B in projected revenue. Shareholders are demanding an emergency vote—”

“Let them demand,” Gu Yanhuai said. He leaned against the wall. Eyes on Ruan Zhi. She was doing ankle pumps in bed. Doctor’s orders. “Sell my shares if you want. I don’t care.”

“Gu Zong, with respect, you’re not thinking clearly. You haven’t slept. You haven’t been to the office in 72 hours. The market thinks you’re dead.”

“I’m thinking clear for the first time in ten years.” He watched Ruan Zhi miss the button on the call light. Try again. “Yun Ding was a means. Not the end. The end is in that room.”

Silence.

Then Lin Wei: “We’ll handle it. I’ll draft the statement. You stay there. I’ll send clothes. And toothpaste. You smell.”

“Good.” He hung up.

Ruan Zhi was smirking when he walked back in. “My hero. Tanked a company.”

“Worth it.” He sat. Picked up her chart. Put it down. “How’s the pain?”

“Three.” She held up three fingers. “Down from eight. I’m a medical miracle. They should study me.”

“You are.” He believed it.

1:15 PM. Physical therapy. The guy’s name was Chen. No relation to Mrs. Chen.

“Up,” Chen said. “We’ll do the hall. Twenty feet.”

“I did ten this morning,” Ruan Zhi said. “I’m good.”

“You’ll do twenty now.” Chen looked at Gu Yanhuai. “You. Don’t catch her unless she falls. She needs to know she can.”

Gu Yanhuai nodded. Hands in his pockets. Fists clenched.

She made it eighteen feet. Then her knees buckled.

He moved. Chen blocked him.

Ruan Zhi caught the rail. Hung there. Breathing hard. “Two more.”

She did two more.

Chen nodded. “Good. Tomorrow, thirty.”

When he left, Gu Yanhuai sat on the floor next to her bed. Head in his hands. “I hate this.”

“I know.” She touched his hair. “But I’m walking. Because of you. You stayed. So I stay.”

2:07 PM. Mrs. Chen brought sheng jian bao. Finally.

Dr. Zhang inspected them. “One. Small bites. Chew slow. If you choke, I’m revoking Gu Zong’s ICU privileges.”

Ruan Zhi bit in. Sesame oil. Pork. Burned bottom. Grease on her chin. She closed her eyes. “2014.”

“2014,” Gu Yanhuai agreed. He didn’t eat his. Just watched her. Thumb wiping her mouth.

“You’re weird,” she said. “Eating with your eyes.”

“I’m eating memory,” he said. “You in my shop. Rain outside. Red scarf. You said you’d wait.”

“I did.” She licked her thumb. “Took you long enough to come back.”

“I know.”

4:40 PM. Lin Wei came back. Laptop. No suit jacket. Tie gone. Dark circles.

“Press release,” he said. “You want to read it?”

“No.”

“It says you’re on medical leave. Indefinitely. That COO Liu will handle operations. That you’re fine, just… prioritizing family.” He glanced at Ruan Zhi. “They used that word. Family. Thought you should know.”

Gu Yanhuai looked at Ruan Zhi. “Family. Yeah. Print it.”

Lin Wei nodded. “Stock’s down 18%. It’ll recover. Or it won’t. We have cash. Enough to burn for a decade.”

“Burn it if you need to.”

Lin Wei almost smiled. “Noted. Also, your mother called. Again.”

“Tell her I’m busy.”

“Told her. She said ‘good.’ Then hung up.”

7:23 PM. Ruan Zhi was sitting up. No cannula. 97 on room air. She’d been off it for two hours.

“Look,” she said. Pointed at the monitor. “Normal person. Disgustingly healthy. For someone missing a lobe.”

“Don’t push it,” Gu Yanhuai said. But he was smiling. Couldn’t help it.

“I’m going home tomorrow.”

“If Dr. Zhang says—”

“She will.” Ruan Zhi reached for his hand. Cold fingers. “I want my bed. I want your terrible cooking. I want to not smell antiseptic. I want to hear traffic, not beeping.”

“You can have it.” He kissed her knuckles. One by one. “All of it.”

9:00 PM. Su brought discharge papers. “Contingent. On tonight. No fever. No desat. No funny business.”

“Define funny business,” Ruan Zhi said.

“No climbing out windows,” Su said. “No marathons. No stress.”

Gu Yanhuai looked at her. “No Yun Ding.”

“No Yun Ding,” Su agreed.

At 11:00 PM, the night nurse did rounds. Young. New.

“He can stay,” she said, nodding at Gu Yanhuai. “Dr. Zhang signed off. As long as he doesn’t touch the equipment. Or sleep in the bed. Liability.”

“I won’t,” he said.

Ruan Zhi patted the bed. Moved over. Made three inches of space. “See? Family stays. Doctor’s orders.”

He lay down. Careful. One arm under her shoulders, mindful of the incision. Her back to his chest. She fit. Like she’d been made to.

“Gu Yanhuai,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For the chair. For ten years. For the 40B.”

He closed his eyes. “Thank you for waiting.”

At 6:15 AM, she was discharged.

Walking. Slow. But walking. No wheelchair. She refused.

Lin Wei pulled the car around. No driver. He drove. Said it was safer. Said the press was outside the main entrance.

Ruan Zhi sat in the back with Gu Yanhuai. Head on his shoulder. Hospital bracelet still on.

“Home,” she said.

“Home,” he agreed.

The car pulled out. Past cameras. Past questions.

He didn’t look.

Ruan Zhi was breathing. In. Out.

He counted each one.