The One Who Taught Her to Heal

Qin Fuhua held Suyin tightly to his chest, her skin hot as embers, her breath shallow and ragged against his collar. Her weight in his arms felt heavier with each step—not because she was a burden, but because fear anchored itself deeper into his chest.

The stranger, hunched yet swift, motioned urgently with his gnarled staff.

"This way. Quickly—before the venom settles into her heart."

There was no hesitation.

Though every instinct warned Qin Fuhua to question, to protect, to doubt—something about the man's voice, his sharpness, his familiarity with poison and urgency—made him trust.

They moved through a narrow trail of loose stone and overgrown brush until the stranger paused at a weathered rock wall. With a practiced twist of his hand, he pressed something behind a moss-covered stone, and the cliff face groaned open just enough to reveal a hidden entrance.

A cave.

Inside, the air was thick and cool, laced with a pungent mixture of dried bark, crushed herbs, and metallic tangs of tincture. Lanterns embedded with fireflies lit the carved tunnel, leading deeper into the mountain's marrow. It twisted like a serpent—a maze of time, silence, and secrets.

Finally, they stepped into a chamber aglow with warm, golden light. The space was filled with shelves, each stacked high with jars of dried roots, pressed flowers, and liquids so vibrant they shimmered unnaturally in the dimness. Along the walls, bundles of herbs dangled upside-down, some aromatic and familiar, others strange and sharply toxic—their leaves in hues of blue, blood-red, or ink-black.

This wasn't just a healer's den.

It was a sanctuary of poisons and cures—a place where life and death were bartered leaf by leaf.

"Lay her there," the man commanded, pointing to a low stone bed covered with animal hide and soft woven cloths.

Qin Fuhua hesitated only for a breath before kneeling, laying Suyin down gently, brushing the damp strands of hair from her flushed face. Her body trembled faintly, her arm swelling from the dart's venom. A faint groan escaped her lips.

"Will she live?" His voice, tight and low.

The healer rolled up his sleeves—revealing arms marked with burns, bites, and inked sigils.

"She has a chance. But the process will hurt more than the poison itself." He opened a wooden chest and drew out a curved needle, its tip glowing faintly green.

Qin Fuhua's jaw clenched.

"Do whatever you need. I'll bear it with her."

The healer gave him a brief glance, then nodded. "You'll need to hold her down. When I inject this into the poisoned vein, it will feel like fire crawling through her bones. She may try to flee her own body from the pain."

Qin Fuhua moved beside her, gently cradling her head against his shoulder, his hand locking around hers.

"I've got you," he whispered, voice trembling. "Stay with me, Suyin."

The healer pressed the needle to her arm—right at the site of the wound. Suyin's eyes fluttered open, dazed, her lips barely forming his name.

"Q-Fuhua…?"

Then—The needle pierced.

A scream tore from her throat—raw, strangled, and filled with agony.

Her body arched against the stone bed, writhing as the venom collided with the antidote—a war waged beneath her skin. Qin Fuhua held her tighter, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes as he pressed his forehead to hers.

"You're strong, Suyin. Don't let go."

She cried out again, sobbing through clenched teeth, and then her limbs finally went slack, a sheen of sweat covering her skin.

The healer pulled back slowly, inspecting her pulse, his fingers firm but calm.

"She's past the worst of it. The poison's breaking."

Qin Fuhua didn't let go—not yet. He sat there with her wrapped in his arms, rocking gently as if to will her safely back to him.

"Just stay," he whispered. "That's all I want. Just stay."

----------------------------

Suyin's breathing had finally stilled.

The tremors in her limbs had ceased, and the fever that once scorched her skin had given way to a quiet stillness. Yet even in sleep, she was not at peace.

She drifted through the dark.

In her dream, there was water—endless, cold, and ink-dark. She was sinking, slowly, helplessly, her arms reaching upward as light rippled far above her, distant and unreachable. Her fingers clawed at nothing, her chest tightening with the unbearable ache of no air.

She was drowning.

She tried to cry out, but the sound was swallowed by the weight of silence pressing her down. Her lungs burned. Her eyes fluttered half-shut.

Then—

"Just stay."

A voice, muffled yet familiar, echoed through the water. A whisper that broke through the panic like sunlight slicing through fog.

"That's all I want. Just stay."

From the shimmer above, a hand pierced the surface, reaching down—strong, warm, and desperate. It grasped her own with unwavering strength, fingers laced with hers.

Qin Fuhua.

He pulled her from the depths with all his might, his arms wrapping around her, holding her as if he could keep her from falling again. Her body collided with his in the dream, and everything stopped—the panic, the sinking, the cold.

She felt him.

Felt the warmth of his embrace.

And then, slowly, she opened her eyes.

The scent of herbs filled her lungs—bitter, earthy, comforting. The warmth of firelight flickered across the cave's rough stone ceiling, casting golden shadows across bundles of hanging plants.

Her skin was damp with sweat, but the fever had passed.

She turned her head slightly and saw him—Qin Fuhua, seated at her side, back against the cave wall, his chin tucked toward his chest in restless sleep. His hand never let go of hers.

Even in slumber, he held her tightly.

Carefully, Suyin sat up, wincing slightly at the soreness in her arm. She moved quietly, unwilling to wake him.

"He's been here all night."

The voice came from across the room, cracked with age but familiar in a way that made her spine straighten.

"Wiping your sweat. Making sure your fever would break."

She turned toward the fire.

From its glow stepped a figure—slow, leaning on a cane, emerging from the shadows like a memory she thought had long slipped through her fingers.

His face was older now, more lines etched into the corners of his eyes, but the warmth in his expression hadn't changed.

"Did you help cure me?" she asked, her voice still faint from the ordeal.

The man stepped closer, firelight painting him in orange-gold.

He smiled softly, though his eyes brimmed with tears that didn't fall.

"There's no way I could forget who you were."

"The moment I saw you, I knew. You are Han Suyin."

Her breath caught.

Even in this strange world, even with her memories blurred like an old painting left out in the rain—she would never forget his face.

The one who raised her.

 The one who taught her how to pick herbs before she could even write her name.

"G–Grandfather?!"

Her voice broke around the word.

The old man nodded, stepping forward with arms open—not wide or imposing, but open like home.