Incurable Chapter 5 Part 1

Before heading home, Mu Wan and Lin Wei detoured to a pet shop.

It was Mu Wan’s first time raising kittens. She knew nothing. The clerk was enthusiastic, recommending one item after another, and Mu Wan nodded along. By the time she realized how far it had gone, she’d bought two full cartons.

While the staff helped Lin Wei carry everything out to the car and lock it in, Mu Wan stayed at the counter to pay. Lin Wei leaned on the register with her arms folded under her chin, watching Mu Wan swipe her card with a sigh full of emotion.

“You’re not even married yet, and you’re already a mom.”

The cashier was a young girl. She laughed. “That’s not unusual at all. Everyone who works here has cats.”

“You like them that much?” Lin Wei asked.

“We do.” The girl’s eyes lit up, as if she could already see the future. “Your kittens are still small now, but once they grow up, you’ll come home, open the door, and they’ll be sitting there waiting for you. They’ll meow like crazy to welcome you back. And with pets around, you won’t feel lonely anymore.”

“My three aren’t growing up anytime soon,” Mu Wan said, smiling politely.

She tried to imagine it, three cats lined up at the door, waiting for her, acting like she mattered enough to be missed. The picture felt strangely unreal. She’d gone too long without being anyone’s “waited for.” And right now, she was still in a daze from the whole situation, holding three lives in her hands and pretending she knew what to do.

“Cats grow fast,” the clerk said. “In less than two months, they’ll be running all over the place.”

Mu Wan took the receipt, thanked her, and got into the car with Lin Wei.

After Lin Wei dropped her off, Lin Wei was called away by someone from her studio. Mu Wan brought the kittens inside and set them on the sofa. She tore open the boxes, pulled out the tiny cat bed, mixed goat milk formula, and settled the kittens as best she could.

Once they were tucked in, she went into the bathroom.

Two days away had not made the mess disappear. It only made it uglier.

The water on the floor had dried, leaving behind stubborn stains where blood had mixed with it. Mu Wan lived alone. Even if an ambulance took her away, even if the wound healed, the chaos at home would still be waiting for her. No one would clean it but her.

She turned on the faucet and aimed the stream at the floor. The water came out hard and fast, slapping against the tile with loud, sharp sounds.

And through all that noise, she heard it.

A soft, babyish meow.

Mu Wan turned the faucet off instantly.

The last drops fell, nearly silent.

“Meow.”

This time she heard it clearly.

Her chest tightened as if something had overturned inside her. She rushed out of the bathroom.

She had put the kittens in her bedroom, in the corner by the foot of her bed. They were so small that even the smallest cat bed still looked huge, like a universe. Three fluffy little bodies lay inside it like three tiny stars, warm and trembling.

Their eyes were still sealed shut. Hearing Mu Wan’s footsteps, they lifted their heads blindly, tiny pink paw pads pressing against each other as they climbed over one another, searching for something they could not name.

Mu Wan grabbed the bottle, the one filled with goat milk formula, and brought it over. The little ones had just eaten, yet the moment the nipple touched their mouths, they latched on again, sucking with frantic determination.

Is this too much?

Mu Wan hesitated and pulled the nipple away.

Instant protest.

Three tiny voices rose at once, meowing helplessly, bodies wriggling and scrambling upward in outrage, as if she’d committed a crime.

Mu Wan panicked and put the nipple back.

By the time it was over, she was a mess. At first, she crouched, trying to stay composed. Then she gave up and sat on the floor. The tiles were cool against her legs, but sweat had still soaked her.

The three kittens were littermates, but none of them looked alike. One was orange, one was orange-and-white, and one was black-and-white. The orange one had a big head and a sturdier build, clearly the boldest. The orange-and-white one was mostly white, with only two orange spots along its back and tail. The black-and-white one had a pattern that split down its forehead like a neat center part.

Mu Wan stared at them, then did what exhausted people always do when they need to pretend they’re in control.

She named them.

The big-headed one became Da Tou. The orange-and-white one became Er Tong. The center-parted one became Zhong Fen.

After feeding them, she put the bottle away. Their bellies were round now, full and soft. They lay in the bed and meowed upward like they were still negotiating for more.

Mu Wan slid her hand into the bed.

The kittens sniffed her first, slow and careful. Then, one by one, they eased their tiny heads down onto her fingers, as if her hand was a pillow made specifically for them.

They fell asleep.

Her hand rested inside the bed, surrounded by softness. Three small heads pressed into her palm, warm as breath.

Outside the window, the light brightened. The weather had finally cleared. And somewhere deep in Mu Wan, something quiet began to grow.

She looked down at them, and the pet shop clerk’s words returned to her. The image of three cats waiting at the door, lined up just for her, suddenly had weight. Suddenly, it had shape.

They were like her in ways she didn’t want to admit.

Born without a father.

Left alone after their mother was gone.

Mu Wan’s fingers moved slightly, her lashes trembling.

“But you’re luckier than I am,” she murmured. “I had nothing. You have each other, and you have me.”

She paused, and the word came out with a self-mocking softness.

“Your stepmother.”

She laughed first, because it was easier than letting the feeling settle too deeply.

On Monday, the moment Liu Qianxiu arrived at his office, a young nurse reported in, careful but curious.

“Doctor Liu, the calico you feed sometimes died a few days ago.”

The pen in his hand paused.

He lifted his eyes. “How?”

“Hit by a car,” the nurse said with a sigh. “The head nurse mentioned it. She also said the calico had a litter. She planned to take the kittens home after her shift and find people to adopt them, but when she went over, they were already gone.”

The nurse’s worry gathered quickly, as if she couldn’t stop herself.

“Do you think someone took them? Newborn kittens are hard to keep alive. If they were adopted, that’s one thing, but I’ve seen news about people who look for kittens just to hurt them…”

Liu Qianxiu closed the file in his hands, expression unchanged.

“Prepare for surgery,” he said.

The nurse blinked, snapped back into work mode, and hurried after him. She’d assumed he would be upset. He fed that calico often. But from the moment she said the cat was dead, his face hadn’t moved at all.

Maybe the nickname “Daoist Liu” really fits. Detached. Calm. As if loss didn’t touch him.

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