Three beds. Three men. Still unconscious.

The doctors had no answers. The tests showed nothing. Their bodies breathed, their hearts beat, but their minds had gone somewhere else. Somewhere no machine could follow.

"Miss Bai?"

She turned. A nurse stood behind her, clipboard in hand, expression professionally sympathetic. "The police are here. They have... questions. About the river. About how you survived."

Bai Yue’s jaw tightened. The river. Of course. They thought she had drowned. They had probably filed a report, maybe even planned a memorial.

"Isn’t that the woman?" a voice whispered from down the hall. "The one who was pushed in? I thought she was dead."

"So she was telling the truth about that Lin Hua woman?"

"I heard she framed her—"

"Enough." A security guard appeared, flanked by two officers. His face was stern. "Miss Bai Yue, we need you to come with us. There are procedures. Questions about your disappearance—"

"I didn’t disappear," Bai Yue said. "I was pushed. You already know that."

"We know what Lin Hua said," the officer replied carefully. "But she’s claiming you fabricated the whole thing. That you staged the attack for attention."

Bai Yue laughed. It came out hollow. "I staged getting shot? I staged three men falling into comas? For what, exactly? A book deal?"

The officer didn’t blink. "Ma’am, please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."

They reached for her arms.

"Wait—"

"We’re just following protocol—"

"Let go of me—"

"Ma’am, if you resist—"

"ENOUGH."

The voice cut through the corridor. Not loud. Not angry. Just... absolute.

Everyone froze.

A woman stepped out of the elevator. She wore white nurse’s scrubs and sensible shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun. Her face was pleasant, unremarkable, the kind of face you’d pass in a hallway and forget immediately.

But her eyes—

Her eyes held galaxies.

Bai Yue’s breath caught. "Tiān—"

"Shh." The woman pressed a finger to her lips, smiling faintly. "We don’t need a scene."

The officers stared at her. The security guard blinked. The nurses in the hallway stood frozen, their coffee cups halfway to their mouths, their expressions blank and distant.

"What..." the officer started. "Who are you?"

"I’m the one who’s going to fix this mess," Tiān-Mìng said. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Honestly. This is what I get for playing games. Mortals and their paperwork."

She waved her hand.

The officers’ eyes went glassy. The security guard’s grip loosened. The nurses blinked once, twice, and then turned and walked away, their coffee cups forgotten on the floor.

"What did you do to them?" Bai Yue whispered.

"Nothing permanent. They’ll wake up in a few minutes with a headache and a vague sense that they forgot something important." Tiān-Mìng looked at the ICU door. "They’re still asleep?"

"All three of them. The doctors don’t know why."

"I do." The goddess’s voice softened. "They’re fighting. Same as you did. Trying to find their way back."

Bai Yue’s throat tightened. "I can’t take them to the river. They won’t let me. The police, the hospital, they think I’m— they think I did something."

Tiān-Mìng was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed again, longer this time. "I really am sorry, you know. For all of it. The games. The tests. The..." She gestured vaguely at the corridor, the hospital, the whole sterile mess of the modern world. "This."

"You already apologized."

"I know. I meant it then. I mean it now."

Bai Yue looked at her. At the goddess in nurse’s scrubs, standing in a hospital hallway, looking almost... tired.

"I don’t need apologies," Bai Yue said. "I need my family back."

Tiān-Mìng nodded slowly. "I can’t undo everything. I can’t make them remember the other world—the modern one. That would break the timeline."

"I don’t want them to remember. I just want them home."

"Then I can do that much."

The goddess raised her hand.

The air in the corridor rippled. It wasn’t wind, exactly, but something behind the wind, something deeper and older. The fluorescent lights flickered. The linoleum floor seemed to breathe.

"The children," Tiān-Mìng said. "Where are they?"

Bai Yue’s heart clenched. "The waiting room. Down the hall. They’ve been there for days. Zhēn won’t eat. Rui Xuě won’t talk. Yòu Lín keeps asking when his father will wake up."

"Bring them."

"The children and the three men," Tiān-Mìng clarified. "All of them. Now."

Bai Yue didn’t wait for more explanation. She ran.

The waiting room was small, cramped, filled with plastic chairs and old magazines and the smell of stale coffee. Zhēn was curled in the corner of a couch, her small body tucked into a ball, her white hair spread across the cushion like spilled milk. Yòu Lín sat beside her, his orange hair a mess, his amber eyes fixed on the door.

Ruì Xuě stood by the window, his back to the room, his purple eyes staring out at the city lights.

Hóng Yè was pacing. He had been pacing for hours, his long legs eating up the small space, his arms crossed tight over his chest.

"They’re awake," Bai Yue said. Breathless.

Everyone turned.

"The men? My father?" Yòu Lín was on his feet.

"No. Not yet. But they’re going to be."

She looked at Hóng Yè. The teenager’s face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaw tight with exhaustion he refused to acknowledge. "The shaman woman is here. The one from the river. She’s going to send us back. All of us."

"Back where?" Hóng Yè demanded.

"Home."

She didn’t wait for more questions. She grabbed Zhēn’s hand, pulled the sleepy girl to her feet, and led them all back down the corridor.

Tiān-Mìng was waiting by the ICU door. She looked at the cluster of children, at Zhēn’s tired eyes, at Ruì Xuě’s guarded stillness, at Yòu Lín’s barely contained energy, at Hóng Yè’s suspicious glare, and her expression softened.

"They don’t remember," Bai Yue said quietly. "None of them. Not the way I do."

"They will. When you’re through." Tiān-Mìng crouched down in front of Zhēn. The little girl stared at her, wary. "Hello, little star. You’re very brave, aren’t you?"