Ling‘er‘s Breath

The autumn wind paid no mind to human affairs, still whistling as it blew, sweeping up a few withered yellow leaves from the ground only to slam them back onto the hospital's grey concrete floor. Old Chen sat on the bench outside the intensive care unit; it was already the third day. The bench was cold, like his heart at this moment.

His daughter, Ling'er, was behind that heavy door. Just three days ago, she was lively and energetic, chatting and laughing with him about interesting things at school, her eyes as bright as stars on an autumn night. It was just a minor minimally invasive surgery, supposedly the latest and best technology – small incision, quick recovery. Ling'er had even playfully insisted that after it was done, she wanted cake from that new shop west of the city. Old Chen had agreed, thinking to himself that his daughter was grown up now, concerned about her appearance; this little surgery, it would be good to have it done.

Who could have thought? "Hypoxia" – two cold words uttered from the mouth of someone in a white coat, striking Old Chen's face, leaving him stunned for a long moment. "Brain death" – these three words were even more like a rusty iron awl, plunging straight into his heart, stirring it into a bloody mess.

He didn't understand. Minimally invasive, minimal trauma – how could it take her life? He asked the doctor. The doctor frowned, his face impassive, uttering words Old Chen couldn't quite grasp: "anesthetic accident," "complications," "extremely low probability," "we are investigating." There were many words, but listening to them felt empty, offering nothing solid to hold onto. It was like looking at someone through frosted glass – shadowy figures, impossible to see clearly.

People came and went in the corridor. White coats hurried past, their steps light or heavy, faces showing professional calm or an occasional hint of fatigue. Nurses pushed equipment, wheels clattering. And there were family members waiting, like him – some pacing anxiously, some bowing their heads to wipe away tears, some staring numbly at the flickering fluorescent lights on the ceiling. The lights seemed old too, emitting a faint 'zzzz' sound, like the sigh of a dying person.

On the chair beside him sat a middle-aged woman, clutching a hot water bottle, her eyes vacant. She was also waiting for news. Her husband, she said, had been hit on the head when scaffolding collapsed at a construction site. She spoke intermittently to Old Chen: "People go out perfectly fine, who knows if they'll come back... This world..." She didn't say more, just held the hot water bottle tighter.

Old Chen didn't reply. What could he say? Offer comfort? He needed comfort himself. He remembered Ling'er as a child, her chubby little hand grasping his finger, gurgling and laughing. He remembered her going to school for the first time, backpack on, turning back every few steps. He remembered her growing into a graceful young woman, saying she wanted to get into a good university so he could enjoy life in the future... Those images spun before his eyes like a revolving lantern, clear yet distant.

A younger doctor walked over, holding a stack of papers. "Mr. Chen," he began, his voice soft, somewhat hesitant, "this is the latest assessment report... The situation... is not optimistic. We've done all we can."

Old Chen looked up, his cloudy eyes fixed on the doctor. His lips moved a few times, but no sound came out. That stack of papers, so light, yet now heavier than a thousand pounds. He probably recognized the black characters printed on them, but strung together, their meaning felt alien, menacing.

"Going forward... we might need to consider..." The doctor paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully, "...the issue of the life support system..."

Old Chen shot up, the legs of the chair scraping harshly against the floor. He stared intently at the doctor, like a cornered beast. "Didn't you... didn't you say... minimally invasive? Didn't you say... it was safe?" His voice was hoarse, filled with disbelief and anger.

The doctor lowered his head, avoiding his gaze. "Every surgery carries risks, we informed you before the procedure..."

"Informed me?" Old Chen gave a bitter laugh. "Did you inform me it would turn out like this? My Ling'er... she's only twenty years old!"

The corridor fell silent for a moment. A few passersby stopped, glancing over curiously. The doctor seemed somewhat embarrassed, saying in a low voice, "We understand how you feel, but... please calm down. What's happened has happened. We need to face reality..."

"Reality?" Old Chen repeated the word as if hearing it for the first time. Reality was his daughter, that vibrant life, now reduced to a body kept breathing by machines? Reality was all his hopes, instantly reduced to nothing?

He slumped back down, burying his hands in his graying hair. Investigation? Procedures? Risks? These words buzzed around his ears like flies. All he wanted was for his Ling'er to wake up, to call him "Dad" like before. But beyond the door, there was only the rhythmic, cold ticking of machines, like the footsteps of time, stepping towards eternal silence.

He remembered that before leaving home, Ling'er had specifically reminded him not to forget to water the jasmine plant on the balcony. She bought it last year for her birthday; it was blooming beautifully. But now, the flowers were likely still blooming, but the person who tended them... was...

The autumn wind blew harder, slipping through the crack of a half-open window, carrying a chill that even the smell of disinfectant couldn't mask. Old Chen shivered. He didn't know how much longer he had to sit here, nor what lay at the end of this wait. He only felt that this hospital was like a vast, cold maze, and he was trapped inside, unable to find an exit. And his Ling'er, the girl once full of sunshine, had become a cold symbol within this maze.

In the corner, a fly buzzed against the windowpane, futilely trying to get out, making a 'buzzing' sound. Old Chen stared blankly at it, watching it collide again and again, only to fall back each time.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow would likely be the same: sitting here, watching that door, guarding a hope that no longer breathed. The wind would still blow, the leaves would still fall, the hospital would still bustle, as if nothing had happened, yet as if everything had been irrevocably turned upside down.