The morning sun filtered through the orchard's canopy like a soft breath, painting the ground in golden dapples. Birds trilled experimental songs—some new, some forgotten—and in the hush between notes, the orchard held its breath. This day was not for doors. It was for something smaller. Something tender.
Tian Shen stood near the Spiral of Listening, fingertips brushing the moss-covered stones. He wore a robe faded with travel and salt, one sleeve tied with ribbon—a quiet homage to the old traditions of grief and grace. His eyes were heavy with dreams unspoken.
Feng Yin approached from behind, his steps soundless as falling petals. He wore ink along the side of his hand and a small thread of morning light caught in his hair. He stopped just beside Tian Shen and didn't speak.
They stood in silence, as lovers long parted do—not from anger, but from life's ache, the kind that stretches time between touch.
At last, Tian Shen said, "It still surprises me. That I stayed."
