Chapter 36 Part 1

Qiu Yiran abruptly opened her eyes.

Her head ached as if it had been crushed by a nightmare.

She struggled to breathe.

Her body hurt all over.

She barely managed to lift her eyelids and wearily surveyed her surroundings—

The light was a dim yellow, coming from an electric bulb wrapped around the overhead beam, its filament like tiny black bugs burrowing into her retinas.

The ceiling was pointed, and the walls were thick fabric embroidered with various ethnic patterns, layered together to block out the cold air from outside.

Was this… a Kazakh Yurt?

Looking a little longer made her eyes sting slightly.

Qiu Yiran closed her eyelids tightly.

She pressed her aching temples and unconsciously called out,

“Li… Chunfeng.”

Her voice was very soft, as if spilling from her throat.

And her thoughts were sluggish.

She hadn’t realized the situation at all and only remembered after calling out—

She was on the road to Paris to get divorced.

With Li Wuhui.

Where was Li Wuhui now?

She remembered their car breaking down on the highway, waiting for rescue, and then she had fallen asleep because it was too cold…

At that thought, Qiu Yiran broke out in cold sweat.

Where was Li Wuhui right now?

Purely on instinct, Qiu Yiran hadn’t even fully opened her eyes.

Everything was blurry in her dazed state as she gripped the cabinet beside her and tried to stand.

It was at that moment—

A pair of hands firmly gripped her elbow.

Then, those hands directly pressed her whole body back down.

A familiar touch.

Only this person’s hands were always so cold.

Qiu Yiran was dazedly pressed back onto the pillow and only then realized—

She was sleeping on something like a floor mat, covered with thick blankets. She had just flung them off in her haste.

Li Wuhui sat on the mat beside her, hugging her knees, slightly bowed head fixed on her.

The woman faced away from the light, so her expression was unclear, but her face looked somewhat pale.

She must have gotten too much wind today too; her long hair had dried, curling slightly against her cheeks.

She watched her, had no idea for how long.

“Li Wuhui.” Qiu Yiran said the name and let out a breath of relief.

“Are you okay?”

Li Wuhui silently watched her, her face outlined in clumsy shadows against the light.

But she didn’t speak.

As if she was desperately holding something back.

Qiu Yiran was baffled and unconsciously blinked. “Li Wuhui, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you talking?”

As she spoke, she lifted her head slightly from the pillow, trying to see Li Wuhui’s face clearly.

“Why look for Li Chunfeng?”

Li Wuhui finally spoke, though it sounded difficult for her too.

Qiu Yiran’s head fell back onto the pillow.

She struggled to part her dry lips but couldn’t say anything.

She couldn’t look at Li Wuhui like this and say she always missed the old Li Chunfeng in her dreams.

They both knew better than anyone that they could never go back.

“Forget it.”

Probably realizing she wouldn’t answer, Li Wuhui let out a self-mocking laugh.

“Actually, I just saw it—you opened your eyes and were looking for me right away.”

“I was worried about you.” Qiu Yiran couldn’t deny it. “I didn’t want you in danger.”

“I know.” Li Wuhui nodded. “But I deliberately didn’t say anything.”

Qiu Yiran clenched her fingers.

Li Wuhui laughed. “Because I wanted to see how long you’d look for me, how the first thing you wanted when you woke up was to find me. It actually made me pretty happy. But I was also afraid you’d really go outside, and then I’d see…”

“You finally saw me,” Li Wuhui said, eyes downcast, “but you didn’t seem very happy about it.”

She finished on her own,

“And that’s when I realized you were looking for—Li Chunfeng.”

It was clearly her own name, but she bit it out so unclearly, like it was unfamiliar, or as if saying it too forcefully would unravel something she couldn’t control.

Qiu Yiran’s throat was dry. “Li Wuhui, that’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter if that’s what you meant.”

Li Wuhui finally looked up at her and smiled. “If you want to miss the old me, you don’t have to hide it. It wouldn’t make me sad.”

Qiu Yiran was speechless.

Li Wuhui seemed to accept it all just fine and calmly began explaining their situation.

“The rescue vehicle took forever to come. You looked really uncomfortable, and luckily two Russians passed by. One of them was a mechanic who checked it out and got it running temporarily, but they said we should get parts replaced in the city. But then the rain started pouring again, and it was too late, so we’re staying with the local herders now.”

Qiu Yiran nodded slowly and glanced around. “Did I sleep a long time?”

“Not too long.”

Li Wuhui pulled the blanket back over her and carefully tucked in the edges.

“The herders here live in groups. Someone who knows a bit of medicine checked you out—you don’t have a fever. You were probably just exhausted and got soaked, so you passed out in the car. But…”

Li Wuhui’s words suddenly caught in her throat.

“But what?”

Noticing Li Wuhui’s evasion, Qiu Yiran asked directly.

But before Li Wuhui could answer,

She had already spotted the issue behind that “but.”

Because she saw the wound medicine next to Li Wuhui, and the prosthetic leg leaning against the side.

Qiu Yiran stared blankly at the detached prosthetic leg.

She instinctively drew back her leg.

Li Wuhui watched her quietly, as if hesitant to speak.

Qiu Yiran slowly curled her right leg up to match her left and said softly,

“But without my knowledge, you had no choice but to remove my prosthetic leg?”

There was no resentment in her tone.

No lingering shred of pride shattered again in anger—just bewilderment and dullness.

She tried hard to accept and understand it happening—

Just like how a normal person gets sick and needs their temperature taken, the first thing checked after she passed out was her residual limb.

Of course this would happen.

She should accept, like others who pulled themselves together, that the ugliest part of her body could be exposed anytime, without warning, to the person who had once been closest to her.

The past couldn’t be changed. Only people could.

Compared to her delayed reaction—

Li Wuhui, forever on the other side of this, seemed even more heartbroken.

Li Wuhui gazed at her, her face deeply shrouded in shadow.

As if countless centuries had passed in her thoughts before she sorted them out and tried to make sense of this.

“You… you got soaked, I was afraid, afraid your… your leg would get infected, so I had to take it off…”

Her voice came in fragments.

She could barely get a few words out before faltering, as if scared, or overly cautious in choosing her words, making her sound timid.

“Yeah, I know.” Qiu Yiran tried her best to smile. “It was necessary. I have no reason to blame you.”

She didn’t know her pale smile looked so feeble and forced to Li Wuhui.

“No reason to blame me?”

Li Wuhui lowered her eyes to her, as if walls stood between their gazes—walls of protection, blame, resentment, escape…

And she always needed the most precise answer from behind those walls. “Or you just don’t blame me?”

Qiu Yiran was stunned.

Seeing the confusion in her eyes, Li Wuhui smiled. “You might as well just blame me outright.”

Her voice was soft.

“Vent your anger on me. That would actually make me feel a bit better.”

With that, Li Wuhui simply stood up from the floor, looked away as if she could no longer meet her eyes. “Since you’re awake, put the medicine on yourself.”

She didn’t seem to feel well either.

Her steps were slow and dragging.

“It’s not that I don’t blame you.”

Before Li Wuhui lifted the door curtain to leave, Qiu Yiran spoke again.

Li Wuhui paused.

“I don’t blame you.” Qiu Yiran repeated.

She lay on her side, cheek gently against the pillow.

She watched Li Wuhui’s blurry silhouette in the wind and softly emphasized, “I don’t blame you, and I have no reason to.”

Her attitude was firm.

Li Wuhui didn’t know if she believed her, but she stood by the door curtain and softly said,

“Got it.”

Then she lifted the curtain and went out.

The yurt was left with only Qiu Yiran.

She stared helplessly at the dropped curtain.

The curtain was thick and opaque, blocking the view outside.

But she knew Li Wuhui hadn’t gone far—just stood at the door.

She was accompanying her this way.

Ever since the car accident.

She had never let her wake up alone.

Qiu Yiran knew that, of course.

She struggled to prop herself up on the bed.

She saw hot water and a hot towel still beside her, plus the wound medicine that had been next to Li Wuhui—more than she herself had brought, piled up.

It didn’t look like hers, nor something the local herders would have.

It must be… what Li Wuhui had packed in her suitcase.

Such a long journey, mostly through winter countries.

Li Wuhui had only brought one suitcase.

Their car wasn’t spacious, and the road was long with essentials they couldn’t skimp on—like tents, gasoline, spare tire, winter blankets.

So they minimized luggage. Even Qiu Yiran, who lived simply, ended up with two suitcases, while Li Wuhui had just one.

Along the way—

Li Wuhui bought what she needed on the spot. Clothes? She’d get a new set in each city, ugly or mismatched didn’t matter; she’d just wear them. Essentials too, restocked in cities.

When inconvenient, she’d ration them.

A globally famous model, reduced to such a mess, running around in a windbreaker with a broken zipper.

She’d saved all that space—

Just to pack these wound medicines, ready for her at any moment.

Qiu Yiran silently stared at the pile of expensive medicines, then heard the sound of a zipper snagging outside the curtain—

As if it had caught on her clothes, the person outside just stomped her foot futilely.

Qiu Yiran’s eyes instantly reddened.

She forced herself to compose her emotions, used the hot water to apply a compress to her wound, then took a box from the pile.

She lifted the blanket, pulled down her pants, and as her red, shrunken residual limb emerged, she applied the medicine bit by bit, as best she could.

Halfway through, she could barely continue.

She had to stop and wipe away tears.

The person outside the curtain seemed to notice and immediately asked, “Qiu Yiran?”

Qiu Yiran pressed her eye corners hard, forcing her voice to sound steady.

“I’m fine.”

The person outside fell silent, hesitated, then couldn’t hold back. “Does… does it hurt a lot?”

It didn’t hurt that much for Qiu Yiran. But Li Wuhui’s voice sounded more pained than hers.

Qiu Yiran shook her head with effort.

Only to realize a beat later that the outside couldn’t see.

But like telepathy.

Through the curtain, Li Wuhui answered herself. “I know you’d say it doesn’t hurt.”

“Qiu Yiran, you like to tough it out.” The voice outside said with a laugh. “So if it really hurts too much, you don’t have to admit it.”

“Just call my name, that’s all.”

Qiu Yiran held her breath tight.

“Just call my name,” Li Wuhui repeated softly, “and I’ll know how much it hurts.”

Qiu Yiran finally burst into tears.

–

But she bit back any sound.

So Li Wuhui outside the curtain never heard her call, just stood there in silence.

In the end.

Qiu Yiran calmed down and finished applying the medicine.

She didn’t put on the prosthetic leg.

She picked up the crutches beside her and slowly walked out, supporting herself on them.

At that moment, Li Wuhui heard the sound of her crutches as she headed outside and breathed a sigh of relief. Just as she was about to get close, it seemed Li Wuhui remembered something and spoke up first.

“Do you need me to step away first?”

Li Chunfeng had never been this considerate or good at giving space before. She would only feel irritated and bluntly lay bare everything rotten and hopeless.

But when exactly had Li Wuhui turned her into this kind of person?

Qiu Yiran didn’t know.

But she knew the reason was simple—it had always just been Qiu Yiran.

Qiu Yiran realized this once again.

She knew her eyes must be badly reddened right now, and it would be hard to speak smoothly.

So when Li Wuhui asked that.

She simply didn’t answer.

Li Wuhui quickly understood what she meant and stepped away from the door curtain.

She walked a few steps farther.

Then left behind one more sentence.