I devoured a chicken leg in one hand and fries in the other, gulping down milk tea, feeling a rare sense of freedom.

The maid watched, smiling brightly: “Slow down, don’t choke.”

Dr. Tingting raised an eyebrow: “Zhixia, can I have that chicken leg?”

I swallowed my bite and nodded: “Sure.”

She studied my expression, putting on gloves and picking up the leg: “This is your food. Why share it with me?”

She took a bite.
I knew food was life to me—without it, I’d have starved on the streets.
Now, I probably wouldn’t die of hunger.

But I still held a grudge.
The money on the meal card, this fried chicken—all came from the wolf.

Sipping my milk tea, I exhaled contentedly: “Because you protected me, didn’t let me go back.”

Dr. Tingting smiled warmly: “I see.”

I ate until I was slightly full, realizing food could lift my mood.

Wiping my mouth, we set off again.
The maid’s slightly rough hand held mine.
My eyes landed on a beef offal stall, and I pointed, pulling her: “Let’s eat that.”

“Of course, but no spicy sauce.”

Because of the vomiting blood, I couldn’t eat anything too stimulating.
Even the chicken leg was plain, and I’d been stuck on porridge and meds for days.

The beef offal was fragrant, chewy, and boosted my mood further.

After eating our way through the food street, I was stuffed but remembered my promise to the maid—a check-up.

On the way back, she squeezed my hand, smiling softly: “Little Zhixia, I have a question.”

I held a new milk tea, pausing my chewing of the pearls: “What?”

Her tone was cautious: “Why did you write ‘Little Leaf’ in your letter?”

The wolf’s surname was Ye, and so was mine.
Grandma always called me Little Leaf.

Her name was Ye Liu—Willow.
I was like a leaf on her branches.
Willows bloom in spring, ripen in summer, and wither in fall.

With “Xia” (summer) in my name, I depended on her willow.
Without Grandma, I had no home.

Swallowing a pearl, I smiled calmly: “If I’m not Zhixia, no one can find me. No one can hurt a dead person.”

The maid froze, hugging me tightly: “If anyone bullies you, tell me. I’ll stand up for you.”

I let her hold me.
Her words gave me a sense of safety, warmth—like I wasn’t so alone.

I closed my eyes gently: “Thank you.”

Maybe she said it on impulse, maybe she meant it, but what did it matter?

I was always alone, rootless.
My only anchor was killed by the wolf.

Back at the hospital, I went to gynecology.
On the bed, the doctor had me place my feet on spread-out leg rests and remove my underwear.

I complied.
She put on gloves, took a flashlight, and leaned in: “Relax, don’t tense.”

I relaxed, then shuddered, looking up.
The doctor’s flashlight circled, her fingers adjusting.
Seconds later, she turned it off: “Get dressed.”

I quickly dressed and hopped off.

The gynecologist nodded to Dr. Tingting and the maid: “Intact. Need the report?”

The maid’s eyes widened: “This…”

“No need,” Dr. Tingting said, relieved, then lost in thought.

I was clueless—what was that about?

The check-up was done.
I sipped my milk tea, and the maid led me back to the psychiatry ward.
The wolf was gone—good.

Licking my lips, belly full, I sat on the bed, contentedly gazing out the window.
Moments later, a trace of sorrow crept in.

Food only lifted my mood briefly; the waves of emotion kept cycling.

Dr. Tingting resumed counseling, coaxing out many of my experiences over days.
Before thirteen, I stayed silent.
What she got, I treated as venting—it felt lighter to share.

She said simply: “To live a good life, you need a purpose—like owning a big house or leading others.”

I felt stifled, unsure how to be strong.
Accepting Grandma’s death was already impossibly hard, a secret I buried, unshared.

Sniffling, I tried to rally, nodding to Dr. Tingting: “I’ll try.”

I shelved thoughts of death, chasing the “good life” she described—and killing the wolf.

Clenching my fists, if I had to choose one, I’d kill the wolf, even if it meant wandering again.

My eyes burned with hatred.
Dr. Tingting didn’t know my resolve, but things seemed less bleak.

Sunset arrived, the sky glowing outside.
I pinched my nose bridge, still unsure how to face the wolf—his presence terrified me.

The maid peeled an apple beside me, a long strip of skin dangling.
She cut it, plated it with disposable plastic, stuck in two toothpicks, and handed it to me: “Zhixia, have some fruit.”

“Thank you.”

The apple was sweet, crisp, delightful, teasing my taste buds.

What should I do?
Go back to school, stay in the mansion, and find a chance to kill the wolf?

It seemed my only path.
Dying without trying would be a waste.

My left hand still ached faintly.
Lost in thought, the door opened.
Heavy footsteps—the wolf was back!

Another hurried set followed—Dr. Tingting, mouth greasy, still chewing food.

I hugged the apple, sliding under the blanket, covering my head.
In the dark, I poked the plate with a toothpick, grabbing a piece to eat.

The maid, thinking he’d demand discharge, stood: “Young Master, Zhixia’s emotions are unstable. She needs more treatment.”

I lifted an apple piece to my mouth, but the wolf yanked the blanket off.

Light flooded in, my hand shook, and the apple fell.

“Why hide from me?” he asked, expressionless.

I flipped the pillow over my face, curling up, avoiding his gaze.

Dr. Tingting sighed, exasperated: “You injured her hand and have the nerve to ask?”

He released the blanket: “She rejected my gift.”

Dr. Tingting snapped: “So you smashed her with it? Make an appointment for yourself!”