The Late Dusk, the Delayed Dawn

Gu Xi lives for two things: handing out thermometers and hiding her medical records at the very bottom of her locker. She's the most patient nurse in the ICU. Everyone says, “Gu Xi is so kind,” but no one asks if she's all right.

Shen Mu lives for two things, too: saving lives with a scalpel and punishing himself with sleepless nights. Three years ago, his fiancée died on his operating table. That margin of error, just 0.5 millimeters, became a thorn that lodged in every moment of his life afterward.

The hospital brought them together: she was assigned to look after his emotional well-being, while he was expected to keep operating.

He helped her drive away the adoptive father who came to her door demanding money. She held down his violently trembling hand as he operated. He split his box of expired vitamins with her, and she wrote one line on his evaluation form: “If it hasn't changed, don't change it.”

One of them was afraid to love again; the other couldn't believe anyone could love her. They spent three months drawing closer, then poured all their strength into building a sheltering home atop the ruins.

Then fate told them: this home would stand for three months at most.

Late-stage stomach cancer, with metastases throughout her body. Nothing could be done.

At dawn on the day she left, she wrote on his palm: “Mu, don't be afraid. Xi, who no one wanted before, has someone who wants her now.”

He survived. His hand was as steady as iron when he held the scalpel.

But no one ever reminded him to take his vitamins again.

A story about “using up all my light just to shine on you.”

The dusk is deep, and dawn comes late.