The sea was a sheet of hammered silver under the light of a waning moon. The Endless Horizon sailed on, a lone speck of wood and resolve in the immense, silent dark. The cheerful energy of the day, the excitement of explaining grandfathers to a four-year-old, had bled away with the sun, leaving behind a quiet, watchful stillness.
Lusi stood at the ship's prow, her hands resting on the smooth, cold wood of the railing. The bun at the nape of her neck felt tight, a constant, subtle pressure. Behind her, below deck, Feng and Yin were asleep. She could picture them: Feng's protective arm thrown over our daughter, Yin's small chest rising and falling in the rhythm of untroubled dreams. The image was a sanctuary she clutched tightly in her mind.
But it could not keep the chill from her heart.
Since Feng had confirmed their course for the capital, a cold, heavy stone had settled in her stomach. It was not a fear of a person or a place, but a primal, formless dread, a deep-seated intuition screaming a warning her logical mind could not decipher.
On deck, the silence was broken by the soft sound of footsteps. Feng came to stand beside her, his presence a familiar warmth against the ocean's chill. He did not speak, simply mirroring her posture, looking out at the same featureless horizon.
"You should be sleeping," he said softly, his voice rough with sleep. "The baby needs rest."
She didn't look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the dark water, as if she could see the future swirling in its depths. "I know."
He waited, sensing the storm within her. The wind whispered through the rigging, a lonely sound.
"Feng'er..." she began, her voice barely audible. "When we reach the capital... will it be as it was before?"
He turned to her then, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean? It will be better. You are my wife. You are the mother of my child. My father will accept you."
"That is not what I asked," she said, finally turning her gaze to him. In the moonlight, her eyes were deep pools of shadow, all the bright, adventurous light he adored momentarily extinguished. "I am not asking about acceptance. I am asking about... the air. The silence between words. The weight of the walls." She placed a hand on her swollen belly, a protective, unconscious gesture. "This feeling... this bad feeling in my heart. It has not left me since we turned the ship homeward."
Feng reached out, his calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. His touch was meant to be reassuring, but it felt like he was trying to wipe away a truth he could not see. "Sisi, it is just the journey. The fatigue. The uncertainty. It is natural to be nervous."
He saw her as his brave, sometimes reckless traveler, now softened by motherhood and prey to irrational fears. He did not see the warrior who had saved him, the merchant who could read a market, the woman whose intuition had been her compass through a hundred foreign ports.
Lusi looked away from him, back toward the consuming darkness. Her silence was heavier than any argument. He was trying to soothe a symptom, while she was trying to diagnose a sickness that had no name.
He sighed, a soft, frustrated sound.
Lusi did not reply. She just stared into the night, where the unspoken shadow of the capital loomed, vast and patient, waiting for them to sail right into its embrace. The stone in her stomach grew heavier. He saw a homecoming. She saw a shore she did not wish to land upon. And in the vast, silent gulf between their perceptions, the future awaited for them.
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