Then, like a receding tide or a predator gathering strength before a strike, all the vines slowly retracted, coiling around the statue once more. But the greedy feeling of consumption temporarily vanished, replaced by a tense, waiting silence. For the first time, an "emotion" other than eternal torment permeated the rotting Garden—a cold, focused… interest.
---
Reality. A private hospital room. The air carried the faint scent of disinfectant, underpinned by the lingering, subtle odor of a failing body. Monitor screens glowed with steady green light, heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation… numbers flickering slowly, tracing a life curve so stable it was almost sterile. The life support system hummed softly; the infusion pump dripped clear liquid with precision.
He lay on the pristine white bed, his body under the thin sheet forming an overly neat, gaunt outline. His hair was cropped short, his face a pallor unseen by the sun, lips dry. Eyelids closed, lashes casting two quiet shadows below. No movement, no expression, an exquisite, hollow shell. The bedside card bore his name, a symbol without warmth, without echo.
Night-shift nurse Lin Yuan pushed the door open, her footsteps quiet. She glanced at the bed, then at the steadily running machines, routinely checked the IV line and his position. Her eyes fell on the nightlight in the corner, and she frowned slightly—too bright. It might affect the patient's rest (theoretically impossible), and it made her somewhat uncomfortable. She walked over, fingers gently twisting the dimmer switch.
The soft light darkened a notch, the room sinking into deeper quiet. The glow from the monitor screens became the primary light source, casting faint, shifting green shadows on his face.
Lin Yuan didn't leave immediately. She stood by the bed, watching him quietly for a few seconds. So young, she thought. Twenty-six, according to the file. Car accident, severe traumatic brain injury, nearly a year now. Hope was slim. She had seen many patients like this. Eventually, the lines on the monitors would flatten. Families went from initial collapse and weeping, to numb exhaustion, to finally facing the (the unavoidable decision to let go). Life was unpredictable.
Her gaze inadvertently swept over his hand resting outside the sheet. Pale, knuckles distinct, lying still like(carved from cold jade).
At that very instant.
The tip of his right index finger twitched, ever so slightly, upward.
The movement was so minute it was almost non-existent, more like a trick of light and shadow. But it happened, defying all medical judgment and long-term observation records.
Lin Yuan's breath hitched. She blinked hard, leaned closer, and fixed her eyes on that hand. Ten seconds passed. A minute. No further movement. As if that tiny tremor had been just meaningless nerve discharge, or a hallucination of her own tired eyes.
She straightened up, let out a soft sigh, and shook her head. Probably just her eyes playing tricks. Miracles were too(luxurious, improbable) in such cases. She verified the monitor data was normal once more, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Footsteps faded down the hallway.
The room returned to silence. Only the rhythmic beeps and hums of the machines remained. He lay still, serene, as if immersed in a sleep never to be disturbed.
No one saw that beneath his placid face, within his skull, in areas medical imaging had (determined to be vast shadows and silence), certain unmonitored neural clusters had, at the moment of the light change and during Lin Yuan's(gaze), produced extremely faint, brief, and synchronized pulses—utterly different from any previous spontaneous neural electrical activity.
And no one knew that at the exact same millisecond his right index finger twitched, the hundreds of black vines in the rotting Garden, deep in his consciousness, all simultaneously "reached" forward a small distance, their tips pointing into the void, their posture filled with an indescribable… hunger and certainty.
The monitor screen glowed steadily. Heart Rate: 62. Blood Pressure: 110/70. SpO2: 98%.
All normal.
Except for the small line now appended to the end of the updated electronic nursing record: "23:47, patient's right index finger exhibited occasional minor involuntary tremor. Closely monitored. No other changes noted."
And except for the log, quietly generated deep in the(lower layers) of the medical cloud server, within the data stream of the room's environmental monitoring subsystem (including light sensors). Marked "Anomalous Event, Low Priority," its trigger was the manual, slight dimming of the lights minutes before. The data packet lay quietly in the queue, waiting for its turn to be polled and reviewed, whenever that might be