I don’t know how I fell asleep—everything just went dark, and I lost consciousness.

When I woke, I was in the hospital, my wrist swollen and painful.
I took painkillers, and thankfully, no bones or tendons were damaged.

“Excessive grief has caused right ventricular hypertrophy. This is the second time. If this continues, she could develop heart failure. In severe cases, she’d need a heart transplant. Even with a compatible heart, with current medical technology in our country, she’d live at most a decade or so,” the doctor said gravely, looking at me in the prime of youth.
First, to warn me to manage my emotions.
Second, to urge the maid, my “guardian,” to be more attentive.

As for the vomiting blood, she’d explained before: extreme grief excites the sympathetic nervous system, irritating the stomach lining, rupturing capillaries, and raising gastric pressure, causing blood to spill—not directly from the heart.

During therapy, Dr. Tingting gave me a sheet of paper to list my wishes.

The maid encouraged me: “Zhixia, as long as your wishes aren’t too hard, I’ll make them come true.”

Numbly, I took the paper and pen.
After writing “I want,” my thoughts veered, filling the lines with the sweetness I longed for.

“I want to eat the cake I never got to taste, then leave this world without pain.”

“I wish to be buried on a vast grassland hillside, counting sheep by day, stars by night. The wind would sing me to sleep, so I wouldn’t be bored. No one would visit my grave—I couldn’t afford a coffin anyway. Just find a stone, carve ‘Little Leaf’ on it for a tombstone. That way, no one would know someone lies there, sparing passersby bad luck. Those who extorted me would never find me again.”

“The sheepdog would wash my epitaph with its urine, water seeping into the earth, maybe sprouting a flower swaying in the wind. If possible, a dandelion, splitting into countless seeds to see the world I never dared dream of—a world where I’m not despised, pelted with stones, beaten bloody, or cursed until I can’t lift my head. Most importantly, no hunger, just endless happiness waiting.”

“I’ve realized death is beautiful, peaceful, free of sorrow or grievances. Once I’m gone, no one can hurt me. Buried in the earth, I’d escape narrow alleys. The whole sky would be the grand house I dreamed of. All the peace and beauty I crave would rush to me.”

“All beauty is just fantasy, companionship an illusion. Death is the easiest to achieve. I hope for a long, sweet dream where I’m treated gently. I await death’s swift arrival.”

Using the essay format Grandma taught me, I smiled like a child seeking praise, handing the paper to Dr. Tingting: “I’m done.”

She read it slowly, her face changing.
She pulled a piece of bubblegum from her pocket: “Zhixia, can you blow bubbles?”

I shook my head: “No.”

“Try it.”

I’d rarely had gum, so I took it, unwrapped it, and chewed.

Would they grant my wishes?
If the wolf wanted to repay me, let him fulfill this one.
He’s a murderer—he must know painless ways to die.

I focused on blowing bubbles.
The maid took my “sweet” wishes, reading them, covering her mouth as tears fell.

Maybe my sincerity moved her.
Dr. Tingting stood, telling the maid: “Watch her.”

She left.
The maid set the paper aside, hugging me gently: “Chu… Zhixia, let’s eat cake, travel, see the sea, the grasslands—everywhere you want to go.”

Surprised and thrilled, I stopped chewing, asking eagerly: “After all that, will he help me find release?”

Her body shook: “No! Don’t think that way.”

I froze, disappointed: “Liar…”

It didn’t matter.
I’d been lied to before.
Death was simple—I didn’t need the wolf’s help.
If only I could make a bomb, blow myself to pieces, maybe take him with me.

The maid held me tighter: “Call me a liar if you want.”

I wouldn’t give up: “If I die, can I be buried in the grasslands?”

“No! You can only go to play… eat good food. If you don’t like what’s out there, I’ll learn to cook it the way you like.”

Several doctors entered, taking turns talking to me, battling with words to spark hope.
My empty eyes gained a faint glimmer, but it took effort.

I was diagnosed with moderate depression—three levels exist: mild (thinking of death but not acting), moderate (crying uncontrollably when upset), and severe (self-harm).

For days, the maid tried everything to make me smile, but I kept my distance—she was a liar.

The wolf never showed up after that day.

No apology either.
I felt cold—murderers stay murderers.
I didn’t even have the right to refuse a phone.

Head bowed, hugging my knees on the hospital bed, I lost interest in everything, wanting to escape this place, far from the wolf.

Dr. Tingting sat beside me, smiling: “Zhixia, ever peeled an onion?”

I nodded.

She forced a smile, confessing: “You’re like an onion. Each layer we peel reveals something new, and it’s more tear-jerking each time.”

She sighed: “I’ve seen bankruptcies, breakups, parental divorces, exam failures—child’s play compared to you. Bankruptcy can be overcome, love can be found again, failed exams can be retaken, divorces can reconcile. Those are just fragile hearts. But you…”

Her voice caught, she took a deep breath: “The director, with twenty years in this field, cried after hearing your story…”

Really? My survival felt like a miracle.

“You hold deep secrets we can’t touch, but that’s okay. Do you believe in blessings after surviving hardship?”

“No.”

Life showed me my world was dim, sustained five years just for Grandma.
The wolf’s presence proved it wasn’t her plan with him.

For five years, I lived the same life—eating leftovers, stopped by owners who said feeding me was a loss.

The director Dr. Tingting mentioned probably never saw someone compete with pigs for food.

She knew my knots were tight, hard to untie.
Lips pursed subtly, she looked at the ceiling, lost: “There’s an old song called Onion. Ever heard it?”

I shook my head: “No.”

She cleared her throat, humming earnestly: “If you’re willing to peel my heart layer by layer, you’ll feel a sting, you’ll cry…”

She suddenly snorted, a tear and snot escaping, grabbing a tissue to wipe her face: “Sorry.”