The rain ended by evening, but its traces lingered everywhere: damp earth, the smell of wet bark, the hush that only followed storms.
The students regrouped at the main lodge, chattering loudly as they shook water from their jackets and compared scavenger hunt spoils. Someone had managed to keep their phone dry enough to blast music through a tinny speaker, and soon the hall filled with noise again—laughter, clinking cups of instant noodles, card games spread across the tables.
Han Rui lingered by the doorway. His clothes were almost dry, but he couldn't shake the heaviness in his chest, the echo of rain against wood.
He told himself he'd imagined it—that flicker in Li Wen's expression, the warmth of his voice cutting through the storm. It shouldn't matter. It couldn't matter.
But when Li Wen crossed the room with a paper cup of steaming tea, stopping in front of him with that maddeningly easy smile, Han Rui's heart betrayed him all over again.
"Here," Li Wen said. "You look cold."
Han Rui hesitated before taking the cup. His fingers brushed Li Wen's—brief, accidental, enough to send a faint jolt up his arm. He looked away quickly, muttering a thank-you.
Li Wen didn't move. Instead, he leaned lightly against the wall beside him, watching the rest of the room with a thoughtful calm that only made Han Rui more aware of the space between them.
For a while, they stood like that—close, but not speaking. The noise of the lodge blurred into background static, muffled by the steady rhythm of Han Rui's pulse.
At last, Li Wen tilted his head. "You're quieter than usual."
Han Rui blinked. "Am I?"
"You are," Li Wen said simply. His eyes flicked sideways, catching Han Rui's for a fleeting second before returning to the crowd. "It's not a bad thing. Just… different."
The words lodged somewhere in Han Rui's throat. He wanted to laugh it off, to deflect—but what rose instead was something dangerously close to truth. Different. Because every moment with you feels like standing on the edge of something I've already lived.
He swallowed hard, forcing the thought down.
"Maybe I'm just tired," he said.
Li Wen hummed softly, not pressing further. But Han Rui caught the faintest curve of his lips, as if he knew more than he let on.
—
That night, the students stayed at a hostel near the park. The rooms were crowded, six bunks apiece, but when the lights dimmed and the laughter faded, quiet settled heavy over the hallways.
Han Rui couldn't sleep.
The storm had stirred something raw in him, and lying awake in the dark only sharpened it. Images flickered behind his eyes—shadows of another life, another end. The same face, the same voice, the same hand reaching for his across chaos.
And now, in this life, here he was again. So close that Han Rui could almost reach out, if only he dared.
A soft sound broke through his thoughts: the creak of the bunk ladder, footsteps padding across the floor. He turned, heart lurching, and found Li Wen silhouetted against the faint glow from the hallway.
"You're awake," Li Wen murmured, as if it were the most natural thing.
Han Rui sat up slowly. "So are you."
Li Wen smiled faintly. "Couldn't sleep. The rain's still loud on the roof." He glanced toward the window, then back. "Want to walk for a bit?"
Han Rui hesitated. Every part of him screamed that he should refuse, that it was too dangerous to be alone again. But his body betrayed him.
"…Alright."
—
They slipped quietly into the empty courtyard. The night was cool, damp air heavy with the smell of rain. Puddles caught fragments of moonlight, scattered like shards of silver glass across the ground.
For a while, they walked without speaking. Li Wen kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, gaze lifted to the cloudy sky. Han Rui trailed half a step behind, eyes lowered, every sense taut.
Finally, Li Wen broke the silence. "You seemed… somewhere else today."
Han Rui froze. "What do you mean?"
Li Wen stopped, turning to face him fully. Even in the faint light, his gaze was steady, sharp. "In the pavilion. You looked like you weren't really there."
Han Rui's chest tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
The truth trembled at the edge of his tongue: I've seen you die. I've seen you live. I don't know if this is fate or punishment.
But he couldn't say it. Not yet.
"I—" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "It was nothing. Just… old memories."
Li Wen's expression softened, but he didn't press. He only said, gently: "Then I hope they weren't painful."
Han Rui looked away. The words burned anyway.
They stood there a moment longer, silence folding around them. Then Li Wen smiled—quiet, knowing, not demanding more. "Come on. Let's go back before someone notices we're gone."
Han Rui followed without protest.
But as they slipped once more into the dim hostel hall, his chest ached with everything unsaid. The thread between them had tightened again, drawn taut by silence and half-truths.
And Han Rui knew: sooner or later, it would snap.