books44 Chapter 557 [Empire] This kind of calm is not the end result
Chapter 557 [Empire] This kind of calm is not the end result
My food is starting to become less "magical".
It's no longer the kind of recovery meal that's meticulously prepared, nutritionally balanced, and has a wonderful taste.
The contents of the bowl were occasionally flawed; some were dry and hard, some were burnt, some were over-seasoned, and some were so unidentifiable that the ingredients were barely discernible, making it difficult to tell if they were edible.
The bowls and plates were all white, spotless, yet so plain as to be unlike the standard tableware issued to the military. There were no patterns, no markings; they resembled the temporary supplies found in a civilian hospital.
Almost every time,
That man brought them all.
Ye Qing.
He seemed to no longer maintain a deliberate distance, nor did he adhere to the usual rhythm of a high-ranking military officer. He didn't knock when he came in; he simply pushed the door open gently, as if to make sure I wouldn't be startled. He placed the tray beside the bed and then propped me up slightly so I wouldn't choke on my first bite.
He didn't say much, but his movements were slow and gentle, with an irresistible patience.
As he entered the room again and again, I began to notice a detail—
His scent had changed.
At first, I couldn't smell it.
I initially thought it was just the room's natural scent, a light, neutral smell from the mixture of warm and cool air. But as he appeared in the room more often, his fragrance gradually became clearer.
Rose.
It's not the cloyingly sweet scent you get in flower shops, but a deep, clean fragrance with a slightly cool quality. It's like a rose that has just bloomed in the cold night, carrying the sharpness of earth and ice, yet having been tempered and softened by layers of moisture.
That's neither perfume nor laundry detergent.
It's a superpower.
Advanced Awakened Beings of the Plant-Based Type, once their abilities reach a certain level, will experience ripples in their sense of taste and smell during emotional fluctuations or energy surges. This is both a side effect of the body and a manifestation of overflowing abilities.
I know he is capable of restraining himself.
He had complete control over whether or not the rose vines appeared.
That fragrance shouldn't have been leaked so easily.
But recently, it has been around.
Not intense, but persistent.
It's not an error, but a deliberate failure to converge.
It's like a silent presence, letting me know at any time that someone is here, outside the door, or nearby, as if secretly checking whether I'll fall into a deep sleep again or need someone to help me up.
As I ate the burnt food, I savored the slowly spreading scent of roses.
It doesn't hinder my breathing, nor does it make me lose my way; it simply sits quietly in the air, impossible to ignore.
I seem a little dazed—
They're not spying on me.
They're not censoring me.
This faint scent of roses felt like it was confirming my emotions, preventing the room from becoming too cold, and keeping my heart from feeling as empty as it did on the front lines.
It's not about control, it's about companionship.
A kind of companionship that doesn't speak, doesn't admit, yet can't be hidden.
I put down my spoon and glanced at him.
He was leaning against the table, as if waiting for me to finish eating, or as if waiting for me to speak first.
I didn't speak.
But I knew he could sense that I had noticed the smell.
Life goes on, one day after another.
The silence hung between us, neither falling nor being broken.
Like a line stretched to its limit but unwilling to break.
I actually really dislike this feeling.
Uncertainty, no explanation, no progress, and no withdrawal.
I know no one likes being left hanging like this, with no answers and no clear direction. But clearly, the man in front of me is far more tolerant of this situation than I am. Or perhaps, it's not tolerance, but rather—he's in a higher position, with more initiative and more choices.
He can wait.
Wait for me to speak, wait for me to recover, wait for things to reveal themselves.
I was forced to be on the "waiting" side.
Sometimes I wonder if he understands this.
Whether or not one understands this inequality is itself a form of pressure.
But he didn't say anything.
And so life went on.
He would come on time and place the not-so-tasty, or even somewhat unsuccessful, food by my bedside; he would check if I was awake when I was awake and dim the lights when I was drowsy; he would occasionally stop by, but never ask me if I had made a decision.
I didn't say anything either.
There was no follow-up inquiry about the test report, no question about the military's handling of the matter, no mention of Ye Lin, and no discussion of how I should return to the team and get back on track.
It's like we've reached a tacit understanding.
Do not touch the core components, do not unpack.
Pretend to be deaf and dumb.
Pretend this is just a normal recovery period from serious injury, pretend the quantum computer is just a temporary technical adjustment, and pretend that the reason I'm still here is only because my body hasn't fully recovered.
Occasionally, I wake up at night and stare at the bouquet of roses that has begun to wilt slightly. The edges of the petals are dry, but the color remains deep. I wonder how long this state can last.
But he would still show up the next day.
She would still put down her plate, still carrying that gradually clearer yet always restrained scent of roses.
There was no rush.
There was no coercion.
They did not back down.
Time was stretched out, stretched very slowly.
It was so slow that I almost forgot things were supposed to have a resolution.
But I know that this calm is not the end result.