The Butterfly in the Wardrobe

The smell of disinfectant mingled with the scent of cedar, congealing into ice beneath the stark white lights of the ICU. Han Yao held Lin Wan's hand. Her fingertips had gone cold, and the butterfly tattoo, drained of color along with her skin, curled like a faded, withered leaf. Amid the steady beeping of the heart monitor, he remembered her drinking tequila with her head thrown back when they first met. The butterfly at the nape of her neck had spread its thorned wings beneath the neon lights. “This time, let me be your cocoon,” he murmured, pinning a pearl hair clip into her long hair, no longer tied up. In the cold glint of the clip, memories surged like a tide: the suit jacket he'd draped over her on a stormy night, the paintbrush they'd held together in the studio, and the warmth of her trembling fingertips as they brushed his chest when she kissed him first. Zhan Heng leaned against the doorway, the crow tattoo on his arm taking on a blue-gray hue in the pale daylight. He lit a cigarette and, through the swirling smoke, watched Han Yao bend down to kiss Lin Wan's forehead, as if kissing a wilting flower. “The little butterfly is finally free,” he said with a self-mocking smile. Ash fell in soft flurries onto the tiles, like the broken dreams they'd once witnessed together. Ding Yining walked in with a cart, the clatter of metal instruments especially grating. Han Yao pressed Lin Wan's cold hand to his face one last time, feeling its warmth fade little by little. “We should go now,” he whispered to her unconscious form, just as he had countless times before when he came to the studio to take her home from work.