A week later, Yinghua Xu returned to the clinic.
Compared with her first visit, she seemed less hesitant, though exhaustion still lingered on her face.
Tingmian Shen noticed that she was carrying a portfolio bag.
Instead of rushing to ask about her condition, Shen smiled and asked:
“Did you bring any paintings today?”
Yinghua was silent for a moment before finally nodding. She took a sketchbook from the portfolio bag.
There were none of the pieces from the exhibition inside.
Only page after page of chaotic scribbles.
Raindrops falling without end.
A shattered car window.
Cracked asphalt.
A little teddy bear lying by the side of the road.
And a little girl’s shoes, soaked with mud and rainwater.
Tingmian didn’t comment on whether the drawings were good or bad. She simply turned the pages, one by one, slowly.
Until she reached the last page, where she stopped.
In the picture, a little girl of about seven stood in a rainstorm.
Her head was bowed, and two umbrellas lay overturned beside her.
She was the only person in the entire picture.
Tingmian didn’t ask, “Where are her parents?”
She only asked softly:
“This girl… has she always been alone?”
Yinghua froze.
She stared at the picture and said nothing for a long time.
Only after a while did she answer in a low voice:
“She wasn’t before.”
After a pause, she continued:
“But then…”
“I was all that was left.”
Tingmian didn’t press her for more.
She knew that being able to say it aloud was already a kind of progress.
Just then, a light rain began to fall outside the window.
At first, it was only a soft sound, like fingertips tapping on a tabletop.
Yinghua’s gaze drifted toward the window.
Raindrops slid down the glass, one, then two, until there were more and more of them.
Her fingers began to clench unconsciously, her nails digging into her palms.
The rain grew heavier.
No—it only felt heavier to her.
Her ears began to ring. Tingmian’s voice suddenly seemed very far away, as though it were coming through a layer of water.
She heard it.
Not the rain outside.
The rain from that day.
The rainstorm too heavy for the windshield wipers to clear. Water covered the windshield, making it impossible to see anything.
Her mother’s hand gripped her wrist tightly.
Then came the enormous impact.
And then there was nothing.
Yinghua’s breathing grew faster and shallower.
Her vision blurred. The walls of the therapy room swayed, and the ceiling seemed to press downward.
She opened her mouth, wanting to speak, but no sound came out.
The air felt so thin.
She felt as though she were being swallowed by that rainstorm.
Tingmian didn’t move closer.
She didn’t touch her, either.
She simply remained where she was and said in a steady, unhurried voice:
“Yinghua Xu.”
“Look at me.”
“Don’t look out the window.”
Yinghua’s eyes were still unfocused.
Tingmian didn’t repeat herself or raise her voice.
She only waited a moment before saying it again.
“Look at me.”
This time, Yinghua’s gaze finally moved toward her, slowly.
Like a drowning person grabbing hold of a rope.
In the same steady tone, Tingmian asked:
“What do you see right now?”
Yinghua’s lips trembled.
“…The couch.”
Her voice was tiny, as though she had pulled it up from somewhere deep inside.
“What else?”
“The bookshelf.”
“…The water glass.”
“The clock.”
With every word she said, her breathing slowed by the smallest amount.
“The plant by the window.”
Tingmian nodded.
“Good.”
“Now touch the water glass in your hand.”
Yinghua lowered her head and looked at her hand. She didn’t remember when she had picked up the water glass, but it was indeed in her hand.
“Is it warm or cold?”
She felt it. The temperature of the glass passed through her fingertips—real and certain.
“…Warm.”
“Do you hear anything?”
Yinghua closed her eyes, then opened them again.
The rain was still falling outside.
But it wasn’t the rain from that day anymore.
“The clock.”
She paused.
“…And your voice.”
Tingmian didn’t smile or say, “You did a great job.”
She simply sat there in silence, like a lamp that would never go out.
Yinghua’s breathing finally returned, little by little, to the room around her.
Before she left, Tingmian handed the sketchbook back to her.
She didn’t ask Yinghua to stop painting.
She only said softly:
“Before you come back next time…”
“Try painting yourself as you are now.”
“You don’t have to paint yourself at seven.”
“And you don’t have to make it good.”
“Just paint how you feel right now.”
Yinghua took the sketchbook and nodded lightly.
Before leaving, she said in a small voice:
“…Thank you.”
It was the first time she had thanked Tingmian on her own.
After she returned home, Yinghua stood in front of her easel for a long time.
She picked up her paintbrush, then set it down.
Finally, she picked it up again.
This time, she didn’t begin by painting the rainstorm.
Instead, she slowly painted a figure in the center of the canvas.
Halfway through, she stopped.
She didn’t know whether she wanted to paint herself as she was now—
or the person who had stayed with her throughout the day and guided her back to reality with a gentle voice.
A light rain was still falling outside.
She didn’t draw the curtains as she used to.
She only gazed quietly at the curtain of rain, letting the first stroke on the canvas slowly bleed outward.