Chapter Nineteen A Small Velvet Box
The Monday after she returned, the whole pediatric ward gathered in the staff lounge for what Sophia had billed, mysteriously, as “an announcement.” Jennie hadn’t told anyone about the promotion yet — she’d wanted Lin Xing to hear it properly, in person, before it became hospital gossip — and so when she stood in front of her small, chaotic circle of colleagues that morning, holding the printed confirmation letter, she felt her hands shake slightly.
“I got the permanent position,” she said.
“Staff Pediatrician. Starting next month.” The room erupted.
Sophia hugged her so hard she nearly knocked the letter out of her hands.
Emma was already crying, unashamed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she’d apparently brought specifically for this purpose.
And Lin Xing — standing a little apart from the noise, as he always did — simply looked at her, something quiet and enormously proud behind his composed expression.
“Congratulations,” he said, when the noise had died down enough for him to be heard.
“Though I confess I’m not surprised.” “You knew?” “I wrote your recommendation letter, Jennie. I’ve known for three weeks.
” “And you didn’t tell me?” “It wasn’t mine to tell.
” A small, private smile. “This wasn’t luck. You earned every bit of it.”
That evening, back at Maple Heights, Jennie sat on her bed and unpacked the last of her suitcase — the sarees folded carefully, the small gifts for Sophia and Emma set aside, and at the very bottom, wrapped in a scarf, the little velvet box she’d bought on impulse and had not once, in two weeks, worked up the courage to think about too directly.
She held it in her palm for a long moment without opening it, thumb resting against the small, worn hinge.
Two weeks of carrying it across an ocean, tucked into every bag, every pocket, and she still hadn’t let herself actually look at it since the moment she’d bought it — as though opening the box again might make the impulse real in a way she wasn’t ready for.
You don’t have to open it tonight, she told herself.
She opened it anyway. The ring sat there, simple and elegant, catching the last of the evening light. What was I thinking, she thought, half laughing at herself, half something closer to tears. I don’t even know what I’d do with this.
Give it to him? Propose to a man who hasn’t even said the word “love” out loud yet?
She closed the box and tucked it carefully into the bottom drawer of her nightstand, telling herself, firmly, that it was simply a reminder — a small, private symbol of hope, nothing more.
Something to keep, not something to give.
Not yet. She had absolutely no plan for what “not yet” was supposed to mean. She told herself that was fine. Some things didn’t need a plan yet. They just needed time.
Life, for the moment, settled back into its familiar rhythm — Sunday church, shared dinners, the small daily architecture of two lives that had quietly, thoroughly become one shared life in every way except the words for it.
Sophia noticed the box almost by accident, four days later, helping Jennie search through her nightstand for a spare charger.
“Jennie.” Sophia held up the small velvet box, eyes wide.
“What. Is. This.” “Put that back.” “Is this a ring?” Sophia opened it before Jennie could stop her, and went completely silent for a full three seconds — a personal record.
“Jennie. JENNIE.” “I panicked in a jewelry shop in Kochi. It’s not a big deal.
” “It is an enormous deal! This is a ring for him, isn’t it?
You bought a ring for Dr. Lin Xing!” “I bought a ring that reminded me of him,” Jennie corrected, taking the box back and closing it firmly.
“There’s a difference. I don’t have a plan.
I don’t know what the future holds. I just saw it, and thought of him, and I wanted to keep it.
That’s all.” Sophia studied her, quiet, then softened, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Someday,” she said, quietly for once, no teasing in her voice at all, “if the day ever comes when you both truly feel the same way — this will mean something even bigger than it does right now.” Jennie looked down at the closed box in her hands.
“Until then,” she said softly, “it’s just a little reminder of hope. ”
She meant to keep it hidden. She meant to wait — for the right moment, the right words, some clear and certain sign that the timing had finally arrived.
But hope, she was learning, rarely waited for anyone’s permission.
And six days later, on an ordinary Friday evening that started with nothing more dramatic than a phone call about a school bus accident, the careful, patient waiting she’d promised herself was about to be interrupted in a way neither she nor Lin Xing could have possibly prepared for.
She tucked the velvet box back into her handbag that morning — an old habit now, carrying it with her the way some people carried a rabbit’s foot, a small unexamined comfort she didn’t quite understand yet — and left for work without a second thought.