Only the Osmanthus Scent Remains

My name is Willow. On the day the tiny life in my womb just passed three months, the tiles in the company pantry shimmered with an unusual glow. The late autumn sunlight slanted in, refracting off the water stains like scattered flecks of gold. I turned around holding a glass cup freshly filled with hot water, droplets clinging to its surface slipping down through my fingers. The warmth in my fingertips was carried away by the droplets, leaving behind a faint, cool itch. The moment the sole of my shoe touched the tile, a sudden slickness caught me off guard, like stepping on melting butter, and my ankle jerked sharply outward. "Ah—" The cry caught in my throat, and I instinctively gripped the sleeve of the person beside me. It was an off-white knitted sweater, still bearing the ironing creases, the stitches fine and tight—one of the styles Claire Xavier had bought just last week. I remember she had purposely shown it off to me that day, saying, "Mr. Lewis said this color suits me." "Willow, watch out!" Assistant Claire Xavier's startled cry, laced with panic, came rushing toward me. The moment her fingertips brushed my arm, I was already falling heavily backward. The instant my tailbone struck the ground, a glass shattered by my ear, and hot water splashed onto my neck, scorching me and making me shiver. Red welts flared on my skin instantly, like I'd been lashed with a cruel whip. A searing pain climbed my spine, as if countless needles were stabbing me all at once. Then, a warm trickle flowed down from the crease of my thigh, like a frightened little snake silently slithering into the hem of my off-white work pants. I could feel the damp patch slowly spreading, sticky with body heat, soaking through the fabric, clinging to my skin—cold enough to make my heart race. I stared at the diamond-shaped chandelier on the ceiling, the halo of light fracturing into a blur before my eyes. Claire Xavier's sobs, the shocked cries of my colleagues, the chaotic footsteps—they all came at me like a buzzing hum behind a thick pane of glass, crashing around my ears. Someone was shouting, "Call an ambulance quickly!" Someone else was pulling out tissues, trying to wipe me, but no one dared to touch my slightly swollen lower abdomen. It was my weak spot, and the most precious treasure I'd cherished for three months. The ambulance siren wailed from afar, piercing my eardrums with a sharp ache. Claire knelt beside me, her nails almost digging into my palm. "Willow, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault for not mopping properly in time... This morning, the janitor said the mop was broken—I should have done it myself..." Her tears fell on the back of my hand, cold and slick, mixing with the sweat in my palm as they slipped into my sleeve. I wanted to say it wasn't her fault, but my throat felt clogged, and all I could do was blink helplessly. In my sight, the silver bracelet on Claire Xavier's wrist swung back and forth, jingling softly. That was the prize Caleb Lewis drew for her at last year's company annual party. At that moment, he stood on the stage, smiling as he said, "Claire Xavier is usually the most diligent; this prize should go to her." I sat in the audience, watching the smile in his eyes, clutching the pearl bracelet he had given me the night before, suddenly feeling its weight more than before.