On the night of his grandfather's burial, the appointment ledger at Jisheng Hall opened by itself. Since childhood, Chen Jiuzhen had been able to see "symptoms": the sickness clinging to the living, old debts buried beneath bridges, and grudges drifting in the rain. He took over the traditional Chinese medicine clinic passed down through his family, thinking he would simply run the shop. It was only after entering a few instances that he figured out one thing: the instances weren't trying to kill you. They were sick.
Changye Town suffered from a blockage. For thirty years, an entire street had swallowed a single sentence until it festered into a knot. The illness of Baishui Village lay beneath the water. Three hundred people had waited three hundred years to hear, "Work's done." On the seventh floor of Ankang Hospital, the doctor who called a patient's name never left.
Others entered instances to escape with their lives. Chen Jiuzhen entered them to make house calls. The Pulse-Reviving Needle restored interrupted breathing; the Evil-Expelling Needle forced out possessing hands; licorice root cleansed injustice, and a bronze mirror brought the eyes to life. He charged for consultations, but wouldn't accept ghost money. If someone truly couldn't pay, he put it on the tab.
But as his practice grew, the accounts grew older. At the top of the list was a consultation from thirty years ago, made by his mother, who was holding a baby that could only say one word: "Pain."
All twelve rows of needles in the needle case were complete. Only the thirteenth needle was missing.
The medicine called "Ask Your Heart" was in the hands of the person waiting for him.
And September 17 was drawing near.
