Car tires hummed against the winding road, carrying them back toward Liangcheng. Inside the quiet cabin, Gu Ze Yan's question still lingered, sharp as a blade: "And now?"
Lin Qing Yun sat frozen, fingers clutching the folds of her skirt. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. She searched herself for an answer, yet what rose in her chest was only a knot of fear, guilt, and something warmer she dared not name.
Silence thickened between them.
Ze Yan's gaze remained on her profile, his expression unreadable. Darkness had begun to gather beyond the window, mountains slipping away into shadows. Qing Yun turned toward the glass, her reflection faint, almost ghostlike. Her throat tightened, and a single tear slid down her cheek before she even realized it.
Ze Yan saw it. His hand twitched, as if to reach for her, but he stilled, fingers tightening against his knee.
Neither spoke again.
---
Lights of the mansion courtyard came into view as the car rolled to a stop. Staff approached, but Ze Yan stepped out first, his tall figure casting a shadow over them.
"No need," he said curtly, motioning them back.
Qing Yun followed slowly, scarf slipping slightly from her shoulders. Ze Yan adjusted it for her without a word before leading her inside. Their steps echoed faintly against the marble floor, but the silence between them was louder still.
In the living room, she set down her scarf on the sofa arm. When he reached for it at the same time, their fingers brushed—brief, accidental, yet enough to send a tremor through her. She pulled back almost instantly, heart stuttering.
His eyes lingered on her retreating hand, but he let the moment pass.
---
Dinner was served quietly in the dining hall. Steaming bowls of fish congee, plates of stir-fried greens, and delicate dumplings filled the table with warmth.
Qing Yun ate slowly, eyes lowered, spoon clinking softly against porcelain. She had barely touched her bowl when Ze Yan reached forward, placing another dish nearer to her.
"Eat a little more," he said, his tone calm, almost coaxing.
She hesitated, then obeyed, lifting another spoonful to her lips. The warmth slid down her throat, easing the hollow ache in her stomach. Yet the weight in her chest remained.
Silence stretched until she finally murmured, almost to herself, "Ze Yan… I don't know how to answer you. Not yet."
Ze Yan set down his chopsticks. His gaze fixed on her, steady, unwavering. "You don't have to answer now."
Relief flickered across her face, but it vanished when he leaned slightly closer, voice dropping low. "I can wait. I've already waited five years—I can wait longer. But, Qing Yun…"
His eyes darkened, carrying something like a plea beneath the calm. "…don't run away again."
The words struck her chest like a stone thrown into still water, rippling outward. Her hand trembled against her bowl. She wanted to say she wouldn't, that she couldn't. But her throat closed, and all she managed was a faint nod.
Ze Yan exhaled softly, picking up his chopsticks again as though nothing more had been said.
---
Later that night, cicadas sang faintly in the garden beyond the glass doors. Qing Yun drifted outside, drawn by the pale glow of lotus blossoms floating on the pond. Moonlight shimmered across the water, the air cool with the scent of damp earth and grass.
She stood there for a long time, hands folded before her, thoughts scattering like petals on the surface. Memories of Si Yao rose unbidden—her laughter, her stubbornness, the way she once tugged Qing Yun's sleeve insisting she would conquer the world.
"I miss you," she whispered, so softly that only the night air heard.
Footsteps approached, quiet and measured. Ze Yan appeared at her side, his presence steady, unintrusive. He carried a light shawl and draped it gently over her shoulders.
"You'll catch cold."
Qing Yun did not answer, but she didn't shrug it off either. The shawl's warmth settled against her skin, mingling with the heat of his nearness.
They stood together in silence. The moon hung above them, reflected in the pond below, two circles of pale light.
Ze Yan's gaze flicked toward her, the question from earlier still lingering unsaid. But he did not voice it again. Patience, he told himself. Patience, until she could bear the weight of her own heart.
Qing Yun's fingers tightened in the fabric of the shawl. She felt his presence beside her like a tide pressing against the shore—steady, unyielding, waiting.
The cicadas sang louder, filling the space where words could not reach.
And so they stood side by side beneath the moonlight, the unanswered question still suspended between them, fragile as glass, waiting for the moment it would finally break.