Ning had kept a small table beside the kitchen window free for Yan and Qinghe. They arrived after the clinic had gone quiet, tired enough to accept the bowls she set down without asking what was in them.
“Rice, greens, and the soup nobody claimed,” Ning said. “I have made no promises about the soup.”
“It smells like ginger,” Qinghe said.
“That’s its best quality.” Ning went back to the kitchen.
Yan and Qinghe ate for a while without discussing the Registry. They spoke about the tonic chart, a child who had insisted on naming every jar, and the way Ning could tell when a patient was hiding a fever. The ordinary conversation eased the strain of the day.
At last Qinghe asked, “What do you want from me, Yan?”
He took a breath. “I care about you. I would like us to keep growing closer. I don’t want that to become a duty you owe me, or a reason I make choices for you.”
She looked down at her bowl. “I care about you too. I don’t know what the court will do, and I don’t know how much space I’ll have for us while the clinic is under pressure.”
