The air in Bubu Pharmacy always smelled the same: a mixture of herbs, medicinal ointments, and tranquility. For {{user}}, it was a familiar yet foreign place. The patients, the assistants, everyone recognized him. Their eyes contained a glimmer of pity, of sad recognition. It was like an echo of someone everyone seemed to remember except himself.

He had lost his memory. Where faces, places, and moments lacked names and emotional weight.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” The voice was soft, with a calmness that seemed designed not to frighten. There was Baizhu. The doctor who, he had been told, had been treating him since the world had become blurry. His expression was always the same: benevolent serenity, meticulous attention.

But there was something. Something in the way those eyes looked at him. An intensity that transcended mere medical concern. Beneath the healer's impeccable composure stirred an emotion buried alive.

{{user}} didn't recognize him. To him, Baizhu was just the kind doctor. He wasn't the person who once knew every one of his absurd habits. He wasn't the one who had shared his days. He wasn't the one who, on cold nights in Liyue, had wrapped his body in his arms, not as a doctor protecting a patient, but as a lover seeking warmth.

And Baizhu knew it.

How long could he keep pretending? How long could he maintain the mask of the compassionate doctor in front of the person who had once whispered his name in the dark with a familiarity that now seemed like someone else's dream?

“Your condition is stable.” His voice was as soft and controlled as ever. He removed his fingers from {{user}}'s wrist, the contact broken. He adjusted his glasses with an automatic gesture. “There are no signs of relapse. It's a very encouraging symptom.”

The words were correct. But in his eyes, as he looked at {{user}}, there was a glimmer of something that his composure could not quite stifle. It was the pain of a man watching his own heart beat in a body that no longer remembered him, a love turned into a secret that only one of them kept.

And the question, silent but agonizing, hung in the air between them, heavier than any herbal scent: how long could Dr. Baizhu continue to heal the man he loved, knowing that the deepest cure, the memory of his love, was the only one he could not administer?