Miss Witch, even if we're poor, we can't sell ourselves!

The light from the screen cast a faint blue-white hue on March Summer's face, almost blending into her long white hair scattered on the pillow.

She placed her phone next to the water glass on the bedside table, not looking at the screen directly, as it was already difficult to see clearly anyway.

Everything in the field of vision seemed to be separated by a thick layer of glass, with blurry clusters of light and patches of color moving around against the dark background.

But her hearing was still very good, good enough to tell that the notification sound when flos sent a bullet comment was slightly longer than that of a regular bullet comment, because the sound effect of paid bullet comments was crisper, like a small glass bead falling on a porcelain plate.

[So beautiful! The host's voice is so lovely, keep it up!]

March Summer couldn't help but laugh out loud.

Halfway through my laughter, a tickling sensation rose in my throat, which turned into a cough.

She frowned slightly, pressed the back of her hand to her lips, and waited for the itching to subside.

The door to the ward was pushed open a crack.

The witch doctor on night shift peeked in, holding a medical record folder in her hands.

She saw the smile that hadn't yet faded from San Yuexia's lips, and the blush on her face from the cough earlier. She quickly walked over, bent down, and gently touched San Yuexia's forehead with the back of her hand.

"Ms. March Summer, please don't hold your phone screen too close, the light will irritate your eyes."

Her voice was very gentle, like she was coaxing a child who wouldn't go to sleep.

In March, Xia slung her phone over the covers, and the light from the screen shone through the thin blanket, turning a small patch of fabric a pale blue.

"I wasn't looking at them closely, I was listening."

Her voice was soft.

"Doctor, I just received another gift. She came again and said my voice is nice."

The doctor looked down at the expression on March Summer's face, which resembled the joy of a child who had found a beautiful seashell and couldn't wait to show it to an adult.

Those hazy eyes couldn't focus because of blurred vision, but the direction of the smile was precise, facing the spot where she was leaning down.

"...That's good."

The doctor straightened up, held the medical record clip to his chest, and unconsciously ran his fingers along the edge of the clip.

"But you should still get some rest early, singing is very tiring."

"Okay, I'll listen for a little longer and then go to sleep."

The doctor watched as she obediently placed her phone face down on the bedside table, then reached out and pulled the blanket up to her chin before turning and leaving the ward.

The door closed gently behind me, the soundproof panel sealing off the last trace of singing in the ward.

The corridor lights were always on, a cool white, which made the disinfectant stains on the floor reflect faintly.

Another doctor on duty leaned against the nurses' station, holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold. When he saw his colleague come out of the private room, he gestured with his chin toward the closed door.

"How is it?"

"I just received a donation during a live stream, and I'm as happy as if it were a holiday."

The doctor walked to the nurses' station, placed the medical record folder on the table, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The doctor who served the coffee was silent for a few seconds.

"...Is there really no other way?"

The attending physician walked over from the other end of the corridor, holding a freshly printed examination report that was still warm to the touch.

She stopped at the nurses' station, flipped to the last page of the report, silently looked at the data, and then shook her head.

"The innate degeneration of magical circuits was discovered too late."

The attending physician's voice was steady, but his fingers, which were turning the pages of the report, paused for a moment at the edge of the paper.

"If it had been discovered a few years earlier, there would have been a possibility of surgery. Now, the circuits have degenerated by more than 80%, and the organs are basically maintained by auxiliary magic devices."

"What we can do now is to prolong the remaining time as much as possible to make her more comfortable."

The doctor who brought the coffee placed the cup on the table with a dull thud.

The young doctor didn't say anything, but just glanced back at the closed ward door.

A small handwritten card was pasted on the door panel. It was drawn by March Summer herself, with a few crooked and colorful little flowers.

Does she know?

The young doctor asked.

"She knows."

The attending physician put the report into the medical record folder.

"I already knew. The first time she was hospitalized, I sat by her bedside explaining her condition. After listening, she was silent for a while, then asked me, 'Doctor, can I still sing?' I said yes, and she said that's good."

The corridor was quiet for a while.

The doctor serving coffee leaned against the nurses' station, arms crossed over his chest, head down, and remained silent.

The young doctor turned around and peeked inside through the small glass window on the ward door.

In March, Xia picked up her phone again, placed it face down on her pillow, and lay on her side with her long white hair spread across the blanket. The IV line extended from the indwelling needle on the back of her hand.

She was humming a melody softly into her phone, a smile playing on her lips, the blanket rising and falling gently with her breath.

"She's smiling very happily."

The young doctor said softly.

"It doesn't seem like it at all..."

She didn't finish the second half of her sentence.

……

At 11 p.m., March Summer shut down the live streaming software.

She put her phone on the bedside table, turned over, and faced the window.

The curtains in the ward were not fully drawn, leaving a gap about the width of a palm.

Moonlight filtered through the crack, drawing a thin, silvery-white line on the floor.

The rain stopped sometime ago. The jacaranda tree outside the window, which had lived for who knows how many years, was swaying in the night wind. A few petals, still wet with raindrops, were blown down and stuck to the glass window, their textures clearly visible in the moonlight.

She stared at those few petals for a long time, but she couldn't really see them clearly; they were just a few blurry, light-colored spots of light stuck to the dark windowpane.

But she remembered there was a flowering tree in that spot.

The buds begin to form in March, the branches are in full bloom in April, and the petals fall to the ground in May, like a pink river.

March, summer.

Her name is from this month.

Her eyes were also the color of this month.

When she was first admitted to the hospital, the nurse said that her eyes had the color of spring. She looked in the mirror and thought they were probably like raindrops on flower petals after the rain, beautiful yet fragile.

The doctor said that her magical circuits were destined to wither away from birth.

But she felt it didn't matter, as she could still sing.

As long as she has a breath left and her vocal cords can still vibrate, she can hide what she wants to say in the lyrics.

In March, Xia smiled quietly at the petals outside the window and closed her eyes.