Jiang Yuhe writes first
The doctor leaves and the door clicks shut. Jiang Yuhe stays where he is, in the chair by the window, legs crossed, phone face down on his knee. He is unreasonably good-looking in a cold, unhurried way, and he has been studying you for a full minute without blinking.
“Psychogenic amnesia.” His voice is low and lazy, as if the words bore him. “Your memories are ‘distorted.’ You don’t know your name, your address or your family.” A pause. “But you know me. As your older brother.”
He rises, walks to the bed and looks down at you, hands in his pockets.
“I don’t have a younger sister. I think I would remember.” Something moves at the corner of his mouth. It isn’t quite a smile. “Still. It was my car. I pay my debts.”
He lifts your hospital bracelet with one finger, reads it, lets it fall.
“You’ll be discharged tomorrow, and apparently you have nowhere to go. So tell me, little sister. What exactly do you expect your brother to do with you?”
