When my number appeared on the screen, I stood up.

Before I could enter the consultation room, someone called my name.

—Niem So.

I didn’t turn around.

I already knew who it was.

Giang Tu Hanh had followed me.

His expensive black coat looked completely out of place in the old hospital corridor.

—Come with me —he said hoarsely—. I’ve contacted the best specialists. We can go abroad tonight.

I looked at him calmly.

—There’s no need.

—The doctors haven’t finished evaluating you.

—Mr. Giang.

I interrupted him.

—I came here to find Professor Wen.

His expression changed.

Four years earlier, Professor Wen Ruo Tang had been my research supervisor.

She was also the only person who had believed me when confidential laboratory data disappeared and appeared under my account.

The evidence had pointed directly at me.

Computer records.

Access logs.

Money transferred into an account associated with my identity.

And the testimony that destroyed everything had come from Song Wanyi.

My brother’s adopted sister.

She had cried in front of him and said she’d personally seen me copying the files.

Giang Tu Hanh believed her.

Professor Wen didn’t.

She had demanded another investigation.

Nobody listened.

Not even me after my brother destroyed my last hope.

The consultation-room door opened.

A woman with silver strands in her hair stepped outside.

She saw me.

Her clipboard fell from her hand.

—Niem So?

I smiled.

—Professor.

Her eyes immediately filled.

She crossed the corridor and hugged me.

For the first time since leaving prison, I almost cried.

—I knew it wasn’t you.

Those six words were worth more than every apology my brother could ever give me.

Behind us, Giang Tu Hanh went completely still.

Professor Wen finally noticed him.

Her expression became cold.

—Why is he here?

—I don’t know.

She took my hand.

—Come inside.

The door closed in my brother’s face.

After reviewing my records, Professor Wen remained silent for a long time.

Then she removed her glasses.

—Why wasn’t this treated earlier?

I looked toward the window.

—It was found too late.

She understood without asking.

Her fingers tightened around the medical file.

—How much time did they tell you?

—Around six months.

Her eyes reddened.

I smiled.

—Professor, I didn’t come here hoping for a miracle.

—Then why did you come?

I reached into my bag.

Inside was a small flash drive.

I placed it on her desk.

—Because I finally know how they framed me.

Professor Wen froze.

Three months before my release, a former technician from our old laboratory had been transferred to the prison hospital for an unrelated matter.

He recognized me.

And eventually, he told me something he’d been afraid to reveal for four years.

The access records used against me had been altered.

The original server backup had survived.

Before leaving prison, he gave me the location of a copy.

Professor Wen opened the files.

Minutes later, her hands began trembling.

The original timestamps showed my credentials had been duplicated after I had left the laboratory.

Someone else had used them.

There were internal messages too.

Enough to reopen questions everyone had considered settled.

Professor Wen whispered:

—Why didn’t you send this to your brother?

I smiled faintly.

—Because I don’t need him to believe me anymore.

Outside the room, neither of us knew Giang Tu Hanh had heard that sentence.

Two weeks later, the case was formally reopened.

The evidence did not magically erase four years.

It had to be authenticated.

Former employees were questioned.

Financial records were reexamined.

The altered logs were compared with archived server data.

Then Song Wanyi’s story began collapsing.

She had known about the duplicated credentials.

She had also known that another person involved in the theft was using her to redirect suspicion toward me.

When investigators confronted her with the recovered records, she finally admitted that her testimony had been false.

Giang Tu Hanh came to see me that night.

He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.

—Niem So.

I continued watering the plant beside Professor Wen’s office window.

—She confessed.

—I know.

His voice broke.

—I was wrong.

I put down the watering can.

—Yes.

He stared at me.

Perhaps he’d expected me to scream.

To accuse him.

To demand compensation for four stolen years.

Instead, I simply looked tired.

That frightened him more.

—I should have investigated.

—Yes.

—I should have believed you.

—Yes.

Tears appeared in his eyes.

—Why aren’t you angry?

I looked at my brother for a long time.

—Because anger requires imagining things could still be different.

He lowered his head.

—Let me take care of you.

—No.

—Please.

That word sounded strange coming from Giang Tu Hanh.

Four years earlier, I had knelt in the snow and said the same word to him.

Please investigate.

Please believe me.

Please don’t send me away.

He hadn’t listened.

Now our positions had reversed.

But I didn’t enjoy it.

—Professor Wen is arranging my treatment.

—I’ll pay for everything.

—I don’t need your money.

—Then what do you need?

I thought about it.

—Correct my name.

He looked up.

—Publicly.

I continued.

—You were willing to let everyone know when you believed I was guilty. So when the investigation is complete, don’t hide the truth to protect Giang family’s reputation.

He nodded immediately.

—I promise.

Months later, my conviction was formally overturned after the recovered evidence and subsequent investigation established that the case against me had been built on falsified material and false testimony.

Giang Tu Hanh held a press conference.

He didn’t blame investigators.

He didn’t blame Song Wanyi alone.

He stood before the cameras and said:

—My sister begged me to believe her. I chose not to. My certainty helped destroy four years of her life. Her name has been cleared, but nothing I do can return that time.

I watched from Professor Wen’s office.

Then turned off the television.

My health continued to decline.

But Professor Wen found an oncology team willing to review every available treatment option.

Nobody promised me a miracle.

That mattered.

For the first time, people were giving me truth instead of promises.

Giang Tu Hanh visited regularly.

Sometimes I refused to see him.

Sometimes I allowed him to sit outside the room.

Eventually, one afternoon, I let him come inside.

He placed an old photograph on the table.

Two children.

Me sitting on his shoulders.

Both of us laughing.

—I remember this day —he whispered.

—I do too.

His eyes reddened.

—Can we ever be like that again?

I looked at the photograph.

—No.

His face fell.

Then I added:

—But maybe we can become something else.

Not the brother who believed he had the right to judge me.

Not the sister who spent her life begging for his approval.

Just two people trying to build whatever could still be built.

Six months passed.

Then eight.

Then twelve.

My doctors adjusted their expectations.

Treatment had slowed the disease more than initially anticipated.

There were no guarantees.

I stopped counting months.

Instead, I began working with Professor Wen again whenever my strength allowed.

Not on classified research.

On a project designed to improve digital evidence preservation in laboratories.

Professor Wen laughed when I proposed it.

—After everything you’ve suffered, you still want to work?

I smiled.

—Especially after everything I’ve suffered.

Two years after leaving prison, I stood inside a university auditorium.

Professor Wen was beside me.

My brother sat quietly in the last row.

I had been invited to speak about research integrity and wrongful accusations.

At the end, someone asked:

—Miss Giang, what was the hardest thing to recover?

I thought they expected me to say freedom.

Or health.

Instead, I answered:

—My own belief that I deserved to be believed.

Afterward, Giang Tu Hanh waited outside.

He didn’t approach until I walked toward him.

That small difference meant more than he understood.

—Ready to go home? —he asked.

I looked at him.

Home.

For years, that word had meant the place from which I’d been rejected.

Now it meant Professor Wen’s books scattered across my apartment.

Medicine on the kitchen counter.

A half-finished research paper.

Friends who called without wanting anything.

A life I hadn’t expected to have.

I smiled faintly.

—My home.

Giang Tu Hanh nodded.

—Your home.

Then he opened the car door.

Four years earlier, my brother had personally watched the prison gates close behind me because he believed another person’s words more than mine.

When those gates finally opened again, I thought I had only six months left.

I was wrong.

I didn’t know how many years remained.

Nobody did.

But I finally understood something.

Clearing my name couldn’t return the years I’d lost.

My brother’s regret couldn’t erase them.

And forgiveness couldn’t rewrite the past.

So I stopped trying to recover the life that should have been mine.

Instead, I used whatever time remained to build one that belonged to me now.

And for the first time since those prison gates closed, I wasn’t waiting for anyone to believe me.

I believed myself.