That night, his father was taken to Sanbo. Early the next morning, Dean Xia personally went to the ward to see him and instructed the head of the cardiology department for quite a while. By the time Li Zehui rushed back, his father had already settled in and held his hand, saying, "Your dean is truly a good man."

He nodded, thinking not just of a good man, but of someone who truly understands talent.

Dean Xia never talks about grand principles with him. He doesn’t talk about "contributing to the country," or "national rejuvenation," or "patriotic sentiment." He just gets things done. Matters of housing, children, parents, life—one by one, quietly arranged for you.

Once, during a chat, Dean Xia said something that he always remembered: "Professor Li, you’ve come back not to endure hardships. Whatever treatment you had abroad, it will only be better domestically. Just focus your efforts on your work; I’ll worry about everything else. I’m your service officer."

The words were plain, but he knew their weight. It wasn’t pleasantries; it was a promise. And this promise was what Dean Xia fulfilled for him over the past year and more, one by one.

It wasn’t just Dean Xia; everyone in Sanbo was helping him integrate.

When he first arrived, what worried him most was interpersonal relationships. After twenty years in the United States, he was used to that "mind your own business" work style. Colleagues were polite, courteous, and kept their distance. He feared that, after returning home, he would not adapt to this society focused on personal relations.

But it turned out to be nothing like he imagined.

Director Han proactively invited him to dinner. "Professor Li, you’ve been in the United States for so long, you must be tired of Western food. I’ll take you to have authentic Cantonese cuisine." The meal lasted for three hours with Director Han telling him about Sanbo’s history and Nandu’s customs. In the end, he patted him on the shoulder and said, "If there’s anything you don’t understand in the future, just ask me directly, no need to be polite."

Xu Zhiliang was always particularly enthusiastic whenever he saw him. Although speaking was a bit of a struggle, "Li... Li... Professor Li, do... do you have... have time? I... I... I can take you... around."

Song Zimo was a man of few words. But every time they met, he would ask, "Professor Li, are you still getting used to things? Is there anything you need help with?" Once he casually mentioned that the chair in his office was uncomfortable, and the next day, a new chair was in his office. He didn’t know how Song Zimo found out or who bought the chair; he only knew that when he bumped into Song Zimo in the corridor that day, Song Zimo nodded at him without saying anything.

Dr. Jin, the leader of the spinal surgery department, usually seemed serious but was actually very attentive. Once during a meeting, Li Zehui casually mentioned he liked spicy food. The next day, Dr. Jin sent someone to bring him a jar of homemade chili sauce. "My wife made this; try it. If it’s not enough, just let me know."

And the young doctors, nurses, and administrative staff, each time they saw him, greeted him with smiles. "Hello, Professor Li!" "Professor Li, you’ve worked hard!" "Professor Li, just call us if you need anything!"

This kind of atmosphere, he had never felt in the United States. The United States was good, but it was a cold kind of good. Everyone was professional, efficient, but kept an appropriate distance. After work, everyone went their own way. Company dinners occurred maybe once a year.

Here, it wasn’t like that.

Once, after finishing surgery in the middle of the night, exhausted, he wanted to buy something to eat at a convenience store. When he reached the entrance, he bumped into a few interns. They saw him, froze for a moment, then enthusiastically gathered around, "Professor Li, you haven’t eaten yet? We’re hungry too, join us!" That night, he sat on a plastic stool in the convenience store, eating instant noodles, drinking beer, and chatting with a few young people in their early twenties. They asked him about the United States, and he asked them about their hometowns. They chatted until two in the morning, then walked back to the hospital with arms around each other’s shoulders.

At that moment, he suddenly thought of a word: belonging.

In twenty years in the United States, he had never felt this.

Gradually, he integrated.

He began to know which window to get food from without queuing, which elevator was less crowded, and which break room had the best coffee. He began to understand his colleagues’ jokes, and know who got along with whom, and who didn’t. He started greeting people in the hallways without having to remember names, and started making after-work plans with people without needing an excuse.

He was getting used to this life.

Once, he ran into Yang Ping in the operating room. Yang Ping asked, "How is it going? Are you adjusted?"

He replied, "Pretty good."

Yang Ping smiled, "It’s not just pretty good, is it better than you imagined?" 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

He also smiled, "Yes, better than I imagined."

Yang Ping said, "I knew it."

That night, he thought again of what Dean Xia had said: "Just focus your efforts on your work, I’ll worry about everything else."

He suddenly realized, this wasn’t just a promise from Dean Xia; this was a promise from the entire hospital, the whole environment, the entire country.

Because whatever he needed, someone thought of it for him. Whatever he wanted to do, someone supported him. There was someone to take care of his family, someone to worry about his life.

He only needed to do one thing well: be a good doctor.

It was that simple.

Now, his team had grown from the initial 5 to more than 20 people. Some were from the United States, some from Europe, and some were domestically trained. The young people were full of vigor and often volunteered to work overtime.

His first student was a kid who got in from a rural area with both parents deceased. That kid was smart, diligent, and talented, quietly working.

Li Zehui was profoundly touched from interacting with this student because this child was essentially an orphan, raised by the government, receiving education, and attending the Medical University through student loans, and while in college, the school provided him with many opportunities to earn money through work-study programs.

In the United States, this kind of child would have long ended up on the streets; how could they possibly attend university, let alone medical school? Impossible, absolutely impossible.

Someone like Li Zehui, whose family background was considered good, was also being crushed by medical school loans, taking many years post-graduation to pay them off. Later, he learned that the child’s medical school loans were not much compared to his U.S. loans—merely a fraction—and that the student could easily pay them off in a year or two after graduation.

Later, many things helped him better understand the differences between China and the United States.

Convenient public transportation, mobile signal everywhere, many things doable on a cellphone, purchasing goods could be delivered to the doorstep; going for a walk or having a late-night snack at night without worry...

Previously, he always thought Chinese people lived in an information cocoon. Now he realized it was actually the Americans living in an information cocoon while thinking they were so free and democratic.

Communicating with that student, for the first time, allowed him to feel what socialism was, making him more determined to stay.

Now he knew, the biggest stage was actually here.

Not because this stage was dazzling, but because standing on this stage, he was the lead role.

Not a supporting role, not a cameo, not a "special guest."

But the owner.

Behind him were people supporting him, beside him were people standing with him, at hand were plenty of resources, and in his heart, a sense of security.

That night, he sent Yang Ping a WeChat message: Professor, thank you for initially persuading me to come back.

Yang Ping quickly replied: You thought it through yourself.

He looked at the message and smiled.

Yes, he had thought it through himself.

But if he hadn’t seen with his own eyes Yang Ping standing on the stage, genuinely respected and loved by so many; if he hadn’t seen how Dean Xia took care of his house, child, and parents; if he hadn’t personally felt how everyone in the hospital was helping him, caring for him, treating him as one of their own...

He might still not have thought it through by now.

The moon outside the window was bright.

He suddenly recalled a line of poetry his father had made him memorize when he was a child: "The moon shines brighter in my hometown."

Back then, it was just a part of the curriculum; now, he felt it was true.