The world after the storm felt both new and ancient.
Wenyan and Lianfang continued west, walking slowly through pine groves heavy with dew. The ground squelched underfoot, and mist hung in the low branches like forgotten dreams. Wenyan leaned on a branch he had carved into a walking stick, his face pale but alert.
"Let me carry that," Lianfang offered, gesturing to the satchel.
He gave her a crooked smile. "If I give it to you, I might never get it back."
"You're not strong enough to argue with me," she replied, taking it anyway.
It was a small thing. But it was the first time in days she had smiled without forcing it.
By late afternoon, they reached the edge of a forgotten village. The houses had long since been swallowed by moss and creeping vines, only a few beams and broken roof tiles remaining. A ruined shrine stood in the center, its painted deity long eroded by time.
Wenyan ran his fingers along a cracked pillar. "It must've been abandoned years ago."
"Or cleared out," Lianfang said, her voice quieter.
They chose a house with three walls and a half-intact roof. It offered some shelter, though a crow had nested in the rafters and squawked at them in protest.
"I'll start a fire," Lianfang said. "You rest."
Wenyan didn't argue.
She gathered dry twigs, thankful the storm had spared a pile beneath the eaves.
Soon, a small flame flickered in the corner, casting long shadows on the stone walls.
Wenyan watched her from where he sat on a broken stool.
"You've changed," he said.
She didn't look up. "Is that a good thing?"
"It's... something I admire."
Lianfang placed the last stick on the fire and turned. "Do you ever miss your old life? Your students? The quiet of your study?"
"Every day."
She waited, but he wasn't done.
"And yet," he said, eyes softening, "I don't want it back. Not if it means losing this."
"This?"
"This fire. This ruin. This moment—with you."
That night, they sat close to the warmth, sharing rice and dried persimmons.
Lianfang tilted her head. "Tell me a secret."
Wenyan raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because I need to believe I'm not the only one who has pieces left buried."
He thought for a long moment. Then: "I once fell in love with a woman I never spoke to."
She blinked. "A courtesan?"
"No. A widow. I saw her in the marketplace every week. She bought the same bundle of herbs—angelica root, always fresh. I imagined her whole life: her garden, her books, the way she'd steep her tea."
"Did she know you?"
"Only as a quiet man who dropped his ink bottle when she smiled at him."
Lianfang chuckled. "And now?"
He looked at her directly. "Now I'm sitting beside a woman who would never let me drop anything without telling me I'm clumsy."
Her smile faltered. "I don't know if I deserve you."
"You don't have to deserve me. Just stay."
The wind picked up sometime after midnight. Lianfang stirred from sleep and sat upright, hearing something foreign beneath the wind's howl—a sharp whistle, faint but distinct.
She nudged Wenyan awake. "Did you hear that?"
He rubbed his eyes. "What?"
"Voices. Whistling."
They listened in silence.
A moment later, there it was again—two short whistles, then silence.
"That's a signal," Wenyan said grimly. "They're nearby."
They gathered their things quickly, smothered the fire, and stepped into the cold darkness.
The forest around the ruined village was dense, and the moonlight barely reached the path. Wenyan gripped Lianfang's hand tightly, his heart pounding.
"I think we're being hunted," she whispered.
Wenyan didn't reply. But he didn't let go.
They moved west through a narrow ravine, the path uneven and slick from the storm. Somewhere behind them, leaves rustled—once, twice. Lianfang spun, reaching for the dagger she kept hidden in her sash.
"Just an animal," Wenyan said. But he didn't sound certain.
They pressed on until dawn painted the sky in gray and silver.
When they finally stopped, breathless and soaked with sweat, Lianfang slumped against a rock.
"They're close," she said. "I can feel it."
Wenyan nodded. "But we're not caught. Not yet."
He looked at her, more serious than she'd ever seen him.
"We need help."
"From whom?"
"An old friend. If he still lives where I think he does."
Lianfang hesitated. "Can we trust him?"
"We'll have to."
They rested under an overhang that overlooked a valley of cypress trees. In the distance, a hawk circled high above, its cry slicing the silence.
Wenyan reached into his satchel and pulled out a tiny scroll—one he had kept hidden even from her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"A letter," he said. "To a man named Shen Liang. He used to be an official in Suzhou before he disappeared into the mountains. He owed me a debt once."
"What kind of debt?"
"The kind that cost him his career and saved a village."
Lianfang looked at him. "You never told me this."
"You never asked."
She touched the scroll. "And if he doesn't help us?"
"Then we find another way."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Promise me something," she said.
"Anything."
"If we survive this… you'll write again. Not just letters and poems. A real story. About all of this."
Wenyan chuckled. "Who would read such a thing?"
"I would."