The morning mist over Liangcheng river was soft as gauze when the car turned past the gates.
It had been months since Qing Yun last saw the mansion, yet everything looked exactly the same — the pale stone façade, the clipped hedges, the sound of water running through the fountain. Only the air felt different.
As the car stopped, the housekeeper and staff lined up discreetly by the steps. When Qing Yun stepped out, they greeted her not as a guest, but as if the household itself had been waiting.
"Welcome home, Madam," said the housekeeper with a gentle bow.
Qing Yun froze for a moment at the word home. It carried a quiet weight she wasn't used to. She gave a small smile. "It's good to be back."
Ze Yan came around to take her luggage from the trunk himself. "Go in. It's cold."
The marble floors inside gleamed faintly under the winter light. Everything smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen. But in the stillness, Qing Yun felt an echo — not of sorrow, but of something unfinished.
Ze Yan watched her take off her coat and gloves, noticing the stillness in her shoulders.
"You can rest first," he said softly.
"I'm not tired." Her gaze moved toward the long glass windows that faced the river. "I missed this quiet."
He smiled a little. "You always hate noise."
She shook her head. "I don't hate it. I just… love peace more."
---
They had lunch together in the sunroom. The meal was simple — steamed fish, vegetables, clear soup — but every motion carried a kind of gentle care.
They ate without many words. Occasionally, Ze Yan refilled her tea, or she passed him a dish. The silence between them wasn't heavy, but it hummed with everything unspoken.
After a while, he reached out and brushed her hand lightly. "We don't have to talk about it today."
Qing Yun looked up. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the exhaustion he'd hidden for weeks.
She nodded slowly. "But one day we should."
"When you're ready."
Her lips curved faintly. "That's unfair. You're always ready first."
He exhaled softly, something almost like a laugh. "Then I'll wait."
And she knew he would.
---
That evening, she wandered alone toward the small riverside study — her favorite room, filled with natural light and the faint smell of ink.
The river outside flowed lazily, its surface silver under the pale sky.
She sat at the low table, opening a sketchbook. Her pencil moved without thought, tracing quiet lines — shards of porcelain, broken lacquer boxes, fragments of manuscripts. Not beauty, not tragedy — just what remained after something cracked.
Her strokes were calm, measured.
Some things can't be repaired into what they were, she thought, but they can still endure.
When Ze Yan appeared at the doorway, he didn't say anything. He leaned against the frame, watching her in silence.
After a moment, she looked up. "You're watching me again."
"You're working again."
"I'm remembering how to breathe."
He walked over, setting a cup of warm tea beside her hand. "Then breathe slower."
---
Later that night, the fire in the living room cast soft amber light across the space.
Qing Yun sat curled on the couch, holding a cup of tea between her palms. Steam blurred the edges of her face. Ze Yan sat across from her, reading quietly, but his gaze often drifted toward her.
She finally broke the silence. "I keep thinking about the baby," she said, her voice even, not trembling. "Not as a loss… but as a lesson."
He lowered the book. "What kind of lesson?"
"That I can't protect everyone by hiding things. I thought if I stayed quiet, I could spare you. But pain doesn't disappear just because you refuse to name it."
He set the book aside and leaned forward. "I wanted to protect you too," he said. "But I forgot you're not fragile."
A faint smile touched her lips. "We both forgot."
He reached over, taking her cup and setting it down on the table. Then he moved closer, enough for their foreheads to touch.
"We can grieve together," he whispered.
Her hand found his. "Together," she echoed.
Outside, the river murmured under the wind, steady and alive. Inside, they stayed like that until the fire burned low — two quiet figures holding each other in the amber dark.
---
The next morning, sunlight filtered pale through the curtains. Qing Yun woke early, the house quiet except for the faint hum of the heater.
She stood by the window, looking out at the river. Frost clung to the railings, but the water still moved — slow, unwavering.
Her phone vibrated. When she answered, Master Shen's voice filled the line, warm and gruff as ever.
"So, my runaway apprentice still remembers her old master?"
Qing Yun smiled. "I never ran away. I was just—"
"Busy being a bride," he finished dryly. "If you're done with that, come back. The scrolls in the studio are older than I am, and I'm tired of waiting."
She laughed, the sound surprising even herself. "I'll come soon."
"Good. Bring tea. The good kind."
When the call ended, she stood there a moment longer, still smiling.
Later, when she told Ze Yan about it, he only nodded. "You heal best when your hands are busy."
She looked at him, touched by how much he understood without asking. "And you?"
"I heal by watching you breathe again."
That night, as she placed her sketchbook and brushes into her bag for the next day, Qing Yun felt something she hadn't in months — lightness.
The scars were still there, quiet beneath the skin. But when she looked out at the river, she no longer saw the reflection of what she'd lost.
She saw movement. Continuation.
This time, she thought, I'll restore something more than paper.
---