She later couldn't clearly recall how she got back to Washington.
The plane, the airport, the luggage—it all felt as if someone else had taken care of it for her.
Her memory had stopped in that hospital room in Shenzhen.
Beyond that, there was only emptiness.
⸻
After returning, she went out very little.
The curtains were mostly drawn, leaving the room dim.
Day and night had no boundaries.
Sometimes she lay down, sometimes she sat.
She did nothing.
She didn't know how much time passed.
⸻
Food was often left on the table.
At first, she would move a little.
Later, she didn't move at all.
She drank very little water.
She didn't feel hungry.
She simply didn't respond to anything.
⸻
Her body gradually grew lighter.
Clothes hung loosely.
Her wrists were exposed, much thinner than before.
She didn't look in the mirror.
⸻
The nights stretched longer.
She rarely truly slept.
Sometimes, as soon as she closed her eyes, fragments appeared—
Snow-covered streets in Harbin, her mother's distant calls,
and that hospital room, white light casting slow breaths.
The scenes had no order, repeating over and over.
⸻
She would suddenly wake.
The room was silent.
The sky not yet light.
⸻
She tried to get up.
Once, she sat up on the bed, pausing for a long time.
Just standing, her steps were slow.
It was as if her strength was being drained bit by bit.
She stood, then sat back down.
⸻
The door was close.
Yet she didn't walk out.
⸻
The phone occasionally lit up.
The screen flickered in the dark room, repeatedly flashing and fading.
⸻
There were calls, messages.
Several times, she saw a number from Paris.
The name appeared on the screen.
She paused.
Her finger didn't move.
The call rang a while, then automatically hung up.
Messages arrived one by one—
"Are you okay?"
"Please call me back if you see this."
"What happened? I'm worried about you…"
She opened them, read, then closed again.
No reply.
⸻
One night, the phone rang for a long time.
She just lay there and listened.
The ringtone repeated again and again.
She flipped the phone over.
The sound was muffled, but she could still hear it.
Until it stopped.
⸻
Dawei came several times.
At first, he just left food on the table, boiled water.
Sometimes he tidied up casually.
He rarely spoke.
He would glance at her still being there, then leave.
⸻
Later, one day, he didn't leave immediately.
He stood in the room, watching her sit on the edge of the bed, motionless for a long time.
"This isn't right," he said.
His voice was low.
She didn't respond.
He paused.
"You weren't like this before.
You've made it through everything in your family…"
The room remained quiet.
She still said nothing.
After a while, he said,
"Let's go see a doctor."
She neither agreed nor refused.
⸻
That afternoon, he didn't push.
He just placed his coat beside her.
"Up."
She shook her head.
He didn't explain.
After a moment, he reached out and gently pulled her up.
⸻
When she stood, her legs were weak.
Not pain, just a lack of strength.
The few steps to the door were slow.
When the door opened, the light outside was blinding.
⸻
They went to the C&O Canal Towpath.
The evening light was dim.
The water was calm.
Few people were around.
At first, she was simply led along.
Step by step, without direction.
After a short while, she stopped.
Dawei stopped too.
He didn't rush her.
After a while, they continued.
⸻
Eventually, he came almost every evening.
Sometimes she didn't want to go out.
He still stood there, saying,
"Let's take a walk."
Several times, she was led outside.
The path was long.
Steps slow.
Few words spoken.
⸻
Dawei accompanied her to see a psychologist, walked with her, and occasionally sat quietly by her side.
At first, she just sat in the counseling room, fingers lightly fidgeting with the armrest, eyes drifting over the white walls. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light. She barely looked up, barely spoke. Dawei sat beside her, holding a warm cup of coffee, silent, occasionally glancing at her.
Gradually, she began to lift her head, following the light to look outside, noticing branches swaying in the wind, the water reflecting faint glimmers. She reached for a pen and noted the exercises the psychologist suggested—writing down one small thing she wanted to do each day, performing one physical action daily.
She started venturing outside. At first, just to the street corner, then back home. Dawei walked beside her, supporting her slowly forward. The wind brushed her face; the damp, cold air carried the scent of melting snow. Her steps were painstakingly slow, each footfall against the wet pavement echoing sharply. Passersby moved around her, yet she felt separated, as if behind glass, her heartbeat gradually syncing with her steps.
Visits to the office gradually increased. At first, she merely sat at her desk, staring at documents, fingers frozen over the keyboard. Dawei would place a cup of coffee nearby, quietly leave. Then, she tried opening the computer, browsing architectural plans, replying to unread emails. Each small task completed, she would pause, take a deep breath, feeling her chest rise and fall.
Work pulled her back into reality. Researching plans, coordinating with clients, managing construction sites—each task acted as an anchor, drawing her from the darkness in her mind. Her hands steadied on the pen, eyes focused on the lines of floor plans, breathing evened. The office air, project progress, discussions with colleagues gradually pulled her back into the world.
Evenings, Dawei still accompanied her for walks. Along the C&O Canal and the Potomac River, the water calm, light soft. At first, she was led, steps heavy, hands clenched in jacket pockets. Later, she began walking on her own, noticing the texture of the cobblestones, the reflections on the water, even glancing at the sunset on the horizon. The wind on her face, cold and damp, reminded her that her body still existed—that she still had the strength to breathe.
Day by day, time passed. She still experienced stagnation, insomnia, darkness—but life began to regain order. At her desk, she organized files, drew plans, answered calls; on the streets, she walked over snow and puddles; in counseling sessions, she took notes, practiced breathing. Small, repeated actions accumulated, slowly leading her out of the shadow of the past.
Li Ming stepped out of the house again, sat at her desk, faced clients, faced reality. The pain hadn't vanished, but her rhythm returned—step by step, steady breathing, thoughts gradually finding direction. Dawei remained nearby, sometimes walking with her, sometimes quietly observing. Day after day, life's weight slowly settled on her shoulders—and she, finally, regained control of her own steps.