2–“How much longer…?”
1139 Words
“Chen’er… can you… open the window a little?”
Madam Lin’s voice was barely more than a breath.
At once, Lu Chen moved, pushing open the swollen wooden frame. A gust of cold night air swept into the room, carrying the smell of rainwater, rust, and distant street food. It was the only fresh air they could afford.
She inhaled. For a heartbeat, relief flickered—then another coughing fit twisted her body.
He rushed to support her back.
“Easy, Mom. Slowly… breathe slowly.”
She tried.
Failed.
Her fingers gripped his wrist until her knuckles turned bone-white.
Lu Chen bit down on his lip. He hated this—hated watching her body fight itself, hated the helplessness in her eyes. More than anything, he wanted to tear the illness out with his bare hands.
When at last the coughing subsided, she slumped weakly against the thin pillow.
“I’m… fine,” she whispered.
“You’re not.”
His voice cracked. He dropped his gaze, ashamed of the tremor. “You’re getting worse.”
She didn’t deny it.
Instead, she reached up, brushing his hair back with a soft, trembling hand.
“You’ve grown so tall… When did that happen?”
“Mom, don’t change the subject.”
His brows knitted tightly. “You haven’t eaten anything today. You can barely sit up.”
“Chen’er… I’m just tired.”
“That’s not ‘tired.’ That’s—”
He shut his mouth before the word dying slipped out.
Silence settled around them, broken only by the rain and the shaky whistle of her breathing.
After a long moment, Madam Lin spoke again.
“You’re too young to worry like this.”
“I’m not,” Lu Chen said quietly. “If I don’t worry… who will?”
A weak smile curved her lips.
“You sound just like your father.”
Lu Chen went still.
Almost immediately, regret flickered across her face.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
The name tasted bitter every time.
Without another word, he rose to his feet.
“I’m going out.”
Madam Lin tried to sit up, anxiety flashing across her face.
“Chen’er, it’s late. Where are you—”
“Just to the market,” he cut in quickly.
He avoided her eyes.
“We’re out of medicine.”
Her worry deepened.
“You need to sleep. You’ve been awake for two days. Your exams—”
“None of that matters right now.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but then a wave of dizziness washed over her. Her head fell back against the pillow.
Lu Chen caught her shoulders, lowering her carefully.
“Mom!”
She forced a thin smile and said.
“See? Just dizziness… that’s all.”
Dizziness wasn’t all.
The bluish tint to her lips.
The hollow look in her eyes.
The faint rattle in her chest—
He knew they meant something worse.
He didn’t have a medical degree. But growing up in clinics, watching doctors, reading discarded textbooks…
He wasn’t clueless.
He knew enough to fear.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.”
He grabbed his thin jacket, hesitated at the door—then rushed back to her side. He cupped her cheek gently.
“I promise. I’ll fix this.”
Madam Lin smiled—the kind of smile a mother gives when she wants to protect her child from the truth.
“Chen’er… don’t promise things that hurt.”
He lowered his head.
“I’ll be back.”
Behind him, the door creaked shut.
Outside — Dongshen District
The rain had slowed to a fine mist, clinging to the air. Still, the streets remained flooded in shallow patches. Neon signs flickered weakly above the narrow alleys, their colors wavering across the wet ground.
Nearby, vendors were already closing their stalls, pulling tarps tight and counting what little they had made for the night. Further down the street, stray dogs nosed through overturned trash, searching for whatever the rain hadn’t washed away.
Lu Chen ran.
He wasn’t going to the market.
There was no money for proper medicine—he knew that.
His mother knew it too.
And so did the world.
He was heading toward the only place that had ever given them anything for free—
the old herbal stall on Snake Alley.
Master Yun’s stall.
But when he turned the corner—
It was empty.
The tarp had been rolled up. The wooden boxes were gone, along with the jars of herbs, the bowls, the strange incense sticks—everything that had once filled the space.
Only a wet piece of cloth remained, flapping weakly in the wind.
Lu Chen froze.
“What…?”
The old man had been there every night for years.
Grumbling, muttering, scolding customers.
Even when it rained.
Even when the entire alley flooded.
Master Yun never left.
Lu Chen’s chest tightened.
“Master Yun!”
His voice echoed through the empty alley. “Are you there?!”
Only silence answered.
His breathing grew uneven. The cold seeped into his bones. He looked left and right, searching for any trace—any sign—but found none.
The one person who sometimes treated his mother for free.
The one person who gave her herbs when she couldn’t pay.
Gone.
Just like that.
It felt like a door closing in his face.
A final one.
He staggered back, gripping the wet wall.
“Why… why today…”
The whisper broke.
For the first time since the call with his father, tears burned at Lu Chen’s eyes.
He wiped them away roughly.
“No. No crying. Not now.”
He forced himself to breathe.
His thoughts raced, crashing into one another.
No money.
No clinics.
No father.
No Master Yun.
His fists clenched at his sides until his nails dug into his skin.
“Mom… wait for me,” he murmured.
“I’ll find something. I have to.”
He ran again—searching, scraping, begging, doing anything he could to find herbs, pills, anything that might help her breathe through the night.
But the night only grew colder.
The rain heavier.
The shops darker.
And the world kept closing in.
And far behind him, in a dim room with peeling walls, Madam Lin lay awake, her eyes fixed on the door her son had disappeared through.
She whispered into the darkness—
half a prayer,
half fear,
half regret:
“Chen’er… forgive me… for making you grow up alone…”
Her breath hitched.
This time, she didn’t cough.
She simply curled in on herself as a wave of pain tore silently through her chest.
She pressed a trembling hand over her heart.
“How much longer…?”
No answer came.
Only the rain.
- Writer
