Free Web NovelChapter 384: Calling out her name
Hua Jing ran into her embrace without hesitation. The warmth of her mother’s arms enveloped her completely, and for the first time in so long, she felt safe—truly safe. The scent of her mother, faint and comforting, surrounded her like a blanket.
"I missed you," Hua Jing whispered, her small hands gripping tightly at her mother’s clothing. "I missed you every day."
Her mother stroked her hair gently, pressing a soft kiss against her forehead. "I know," she murmured. "I have always known."
For a moment, time did not exist. There was no forest. No coffin. No darkness pressing in around fragile lungs. There was only warmth and the steady rhythm of her mother’s heartbeat.
But then, faintly, through the layers of light, she heard something else.
A voice.
At first it was distant, almost swallowed by the softness of the world she stood in. It did not belong to the gentle brightness before her, nor to the tender arms that held her. It came from somewhere farther away, cutting through the glow like a thread pulling taut.
It was calling her name.
"Hua Jing..."
The sound trembled, as though carried across a great distance. Desperate. Unsteady. It was not a calm voice. It was not patient. It was a voice on the verge of breaking.
And something inside her stirred.
In her drifting consciousness, memories rose unbidden.
One year ago.
The accident.
The metallic smell in the air. The shattered glass. The world tilting sideways in a blur of headlights and screeching brakes. She remembered the haze that followed, the way her hearing dulled as though she had been submerged underwater. And through that suffocating fog, there had been a pounding sound—fists striking against the window, frantic and relentless.
Someone had been calling her then too.
"Hua Jing! Hua Jing!"
The voice had been raw, almost hoarse, laced with a panic so profound it bordered on terror. She remembered the way it had pierced through her fading awareness, how it had clung to her even as darkness tried to swallow everything whole. It had sounded like someone trying to pull her back from the edge by sheer will alone, as if repeating her name could tether her to this world.
As if calling her like that could prevent her from slipping away.
There had been something in that voice—something that trembled with the fear of losing what mattered most. It had not been a casual cry. It had been the sound of a man who felt something precious sliding through his fingers and was desperate to close his hand before it was gone forever.
And in that strange, fleeting other world they had once touched—where fate had twisted and crossed their paths in ways neither fully understood—he had called her name like that too. Not with authority. Not with command. But with urgency, with helplessness, with a vulnerability he showed no one else.
Now, as she stood bathed in light, she heard it again.
Closer this time.
More frantic.
"Hua Jing... please..."
Her mother seemed to hear it too. She lifted her head slightly, her expression soft but knowing.
Someone is calling you," she said gently.
Hua Jing frowned and shook her head, tightening her hold. "I don’t want to go," she whispered. "Stay with me a little longer. I just found you."
Her mother’s smile did not fade, but there was a quiet sadness in her eyes now. She cupped Hua Jing’s small face between her hands.
"This is not the place where you belong," she said softly. "You still have so much left to do. There are people waiting for you."
Hua Jing’s lower lip trembled. "But I’m tired," she admitted. "It was so dark. I was so scared."
Her mother brushed away an invisible tear. "You were very brave," she said. "But your journey isn’t finished. There is someone who loves you very much. Can’t you hear him?"
The voice calling her name grew clearer now. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ
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Breaking.
"Hua Jing... please..."
Her mother smiled and leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against her daughter’s in a gesture so familiar, so achingly tender, that Hua Jing felt her heart swell painfully within her chest.
"Go back," her mother whispered softly. "When the time is right, we will meet again. But not today."
Hua Jing’s small face crumpled immediately. Because here, in this glowing place suspended between memory and eternity, she was still a child. Her emotions were unfiltered, unguarded, pure. Her lips formed a pout, and her brows knitted together in unmistakable protest.
"You’ve only just heard about him," she complained in a small, wounded voice. "And you’re already picking his side. You want me to go back so quickly. Don’t you want me to stay here with you? I’ve missed you so much."
There was something heartbreakingly innocent in the way she said it, like a little girl afraid of being abandoned all over again.
Her mother paused, her expression flickering between amusement and sorrow. For a moment, she truly did not know whether to laugh or cry. The corners of her lips curved upward gently, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
"Do you want to tell me about him?" she asked softly.
At that question, something shifted.
The warmth around Hua Jing deepened, and she felt herself changing—not abruptly, not painfully, but naturally, like time flowing forward in a single breath. Her small hands grew slender and graceful once more. Her perspective rose. The world around her adjusted quietly.
When she blinked, she was no longer a child standing on tiptoe.
She was herself again.
An adult woman sitting beside her mother as though no years had separated them. They sat together in that gentle, glowing space, facing one another, knees almost touching. Hua Jing looked down at her hands for a moment, then back up, her expression soft and vulnerable.
"He’s a very nice person," she began quietly. "He takes care of me very, very well. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always there. When I’m afraid, he stands in front of me. When I’m tired, he lets me lean on him. When I’m in trouble, he comes for me... no matter what."
