"I don't need the world to be gentle—just you. Just once."
- Ruoxin
It rained once again.
The kind of soft, drizzly rain that seeps into clothing and memory as well. A hushed weeping from the skies, as though Heaven itself was grieving something lost long ago.
I was peeling ginger by the window when I heard the knock. Three times. Not loudly. Almost hesitantly. As if asking.
I opened the door and looked at him.
A boy — no, a shadow of a boy — leaned against the door, blood and rain falling from him in equal proportions. His robes were ripped in areas that shouldn't rip. His eyes… too empty for one so young.
He never asked for assistance. He simply stared at me. And somehow, in that gaze, I heard the words that he would not speak.
Please. Just once. Do not turn me down.
I didn't.
He fell before I could catch him.
I pulled him to me, not wanting to shock whatever was broken in him.
There was a wound on his shoulder, deep and blackening around the edges. Infected.
I bit my lip and whispered, "You'll be okay."
I wasn't sure if it was true. But at times, a voice speaking it out loud is sufficient to deceive the world into believing.
I boiled the water. I crushed the herbs. I washed away the blood until I found skin. Then I stitched. Clumsy, ugly stitches — but they held.
He did not yell. He only clenched his teeth on a rag and glared at the rafters as if they were somewhere far away.
I wrapped him in my blanket. The one with the mended corners and the scent of lavender and woodsmoke. I wrapped him in, though I did not know if he would survive the night.
And then I sat next to him, lit the lantern, and whispered tales until we both fell asleep.
He woke up two days later.
His voice was a rasp, such as shattered glass wedged in his throat.
"…Where am I?"
"Home," I whispered, spooning cold water to his lips. "Don't try to move. You'll pull the stitches."
He blinked at me. Guarded. As if I would disappear if he blinked too hard.
"Why?"
The word landed heavy. It wasn't confusion. It was disbelief.
Why would you help me?
Why would anyone?
I didn't answer that immediately.
I simply said, "Because someone should."
We didn't say much at first.
He was slow to talk, slower to trust. His silences were hard-edged things. Not empty, but guarded — like a house with too many locks.
I didn't ask.
I simply let him be.
I cooked him soup. Took care of his wound. Allowed him to sit near the fire when he could walk again. Gave him space when he winced at sudden noises.
When I asked for his name, he hesitated.
Long enough that I was sure it wasn't the truth when he told, "....Wu Ming."
I smiled, not unkindly.
"Nameless, is it?"
He blinked. A quick blink.
Then, gradually, he nodded.
I didn't push.
Some people carry names as curses. Others wear lies as bandages — not to deceive, but to survive.
Then I said softly,
"Well, Wu Ming. This is a good place for starting over."
And finally, I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile, not quite. But close. Something trying.
Days passed.
I allowed him to remain. No conditions. No queries.
He wouldn't let anyone help him once he could walk without staggering. He swept the floors. Brought in water. Split wood — clumsily at first, but with stubborn pride.
Occasionally, I caught him staring at me.
Not like a predator. Like a hungry animal who had no idea what to do with warmth.
I allowed him.
I woke up one morning to find him in the garden, kneeling next to the basil sprout I had almost given up on.
He didn't even pick it up. Just looked at it like he was attempting to figure out how something so tiny could possibly grow in the ground.
"You named this one?" he asked without looking.
"Hope," I whispered, standing by his side.
"It hasn't grown much."
He stayed quiet for a second. Then he said, "...Maybe it is trying. Even if no one pays attention."
My breath caught.
And in that moment, I knew — this nameless stranger, this kid — was getting under my skin in a way that nobody ever had.
We started eating together.
He never told me if he liked my cooking, but he would always finish the bowl.
Sometimes he washed dishes alone. Sometimes he just stayed on the porch with me, as the tall grass swayed in the wind.
He didn't smile a lot. But when he did, it was like sunlight filtering through cracked, worn boards in a boarded-up house.
He never mentioned his history.
And I never inquired.
Instead, we discussed something else. Small things.
He asked me why I hum while sweeping. I explained to him the silence feels lonely.
He inquired if I missed the city. I nodded — but not as much as I missed the idea of it.
He did not laugh at that. He just nodded, as if he understood the agony of a dream that you have to bury.
Six years passed in that manner.
They didn't pass quickly. But they passed with kindness.
He healed. His body became strong — muscles bulged out along his arms and shoulders from splitting wood, hauling water, tying herbs in bundles. The dirty boy was now a quiet man. Still quick-eyed, still quiet most days. But no more fearful movements. Only wariness. And sadness, like a stone always in his shoe.
He was thirteen. I was twenty.
We lived simply. We gathered wild mushrooms. We patched the roof when it was leaky. We ate outdoors in the dark. I sometimes caught him sneaking food to my chickens when he thought I wasn't looking.
He never asked for more. But he never left.
And in that silence, something gentle grew. I began to smile again. I began to hope. I made him his own robe one winter — dark blue, with red-threaded hems. He accepted it silently, but wore it every other day. I discovered him one afternoon whittling a hairpin out of wood.
He gave it to me in silence. It was rough, but beautiful. I wore it every day afterwards. One evening while I repaired a hole in his cuff, I whispered, "There's a city thirteen days to the east. Bao Xiang. There's a healer's hall there that accepts apprentices. I've been saving to go. Just waiting for the right season. And…" I paused.
The fire crackled. His sleeve trembled in my hand.
"....Would you come with me?" He looked at me. And for an instant something had passed across his eyes. Pain. Regret. Maybe even guilt. But he hid it quickly, like a kid hiding a broken toy. He said, "Yes."
I smiled. I smiled as if the rain had ceased falling within my chest. And I told him, "Then let's go tomorrow."
That night, I couldn't sleep. I leaned back onto my mat, looking up at the ceiling, hand on chest as if to contain the euphoria. There was another person with me. I wasn't alone. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to dream about a future in which the days were no longer so quiet.
Where I wasn't humming to myself. Where I wasn't alone turning the lantern switch at dusk. I pictured a city in which no one knew us, yet we could begin again.
Where my hands could heal more than just cuts and coughs. Where Wu Ming could find a name he wanted to keep.
I didn't know. I didn't know that while I dreamed, he sat outside beneath the moonlight, eyes closed, hands clenched. That somewhere inside him, something monstrous stirred and whispered, "She's seen enough. You got close. Now finish it."
I didn't know. But I would remember the way he smiled the next morning. Soft. Almost real. Like he wanted to believe in the lie just a little longer.
...
The morning sun spilled through the thin fabric of the hut like honey through gauze. Golden threads caught on every wooden beam, every glass bottle of tincture, every dried root and scroll, illuminating the little home.
It was a quiet kind of holy, the kind that did not need incense or bells—only the sound of birds waking, wind brushing the reeds, and the gentle clatter of bowls being stacked. Ruoxin moved like she always did; barefoot, careful not to disturb the dust, humming under her breath a song only she remembered.
Something her mother used to sing, once. The tune had no name—only memories curled inside it like old petals pressed in paper.
Her braid, loose today, danced along her back as she carried two bundles of dried rice cakes and winter pears, wrapped carefully in linen.
"Wu Ming," she called, her voice light. "You packed your brush, right? I made space in the satchel for it."
No answer, but she didn't mind. He was probably by the stream again, washing his hands like he always did before travel—always silent in the mornings, like he was preparing himself for some war that never came. She used to find it odd. Now she found it endearing. He was a quiet flame. A stillness she had learned to read.
She glanced at the table. On it sat the small blue ribbon she had kept hidden for over a year now. She picked it up, fingers hesitant, and stared.
Maybe…maybe today. She blushed a little and slipped it into her sleeve.
Six years ago, he had arrived with blood on his boots. Now? He looked like a person. Not a ghost. Not a shadow. He didn't smile much, but his silences weren't hollow anymore. He helped her stack herbs by color, remembered how she liked her tea bitter, and fed the sparrows even though he pretended to dislike them. The boy who once flinched when she touched his shoulder now leaned against the doorway without thinking.
He never told her what happened before he came. She never asked. She believed kindness should not need a reason.
Everyone bleeds differently, she always thought. And not all scars need names.
"Wu Ming," she called again, stepping outside.
He was there—leaning against the hut's old well, eyes distant, the wind pulling lightly at his ragged robes. But even they looked mended now. He'd started washing them. A quiet miracle.
"We'll be late," she smiled. "I already told the herbalist in Bixu Village we'd be there by sundown."
He turned slowly.
There was something unreadable in his gaze today. Something heavy.
She frowned, stepping forward. "Hey… did something happen?"
He stared at her for a moment. Then shook his head. "No."
Ruoxin nodded, but her heart ached faintly.
He's nervous. Of course he is. We're leaving everything we know.
She reached out and gently took his hand, warm against her callused palm. "Wu Ming," she whispered, "I'm glad it's you. Really. I wouldn't want to start a new life with anyone else."
A long silence. A bird cried once in the distance.
"I…" she bit her lip. "I know you don't believe in a lot of things. But I hope, one day, you'll believe in peace. You don't have to tell me anything. Just… know that no matter what you've done—you're still good to me."
He looked down at their hands.
She squeezed them gently. "Let's go soon. I'll bring the porridge. Don't forget the satchel."
Then she turned and walked back inside, humming her mother's song, her back full of hope.
Behind her, Wu Ming stood alone in the golden light, unmoving.
His shadow did not follow her.
His breath came slow, fractured.
In his sleeve, his fingers curled slowly around the hidden blade.