"Some ghosts don't haunt graveyards. They linger in unopened drawers, in half-folded blankets, in people you still love."
⸻
Xue Zhen had always known how to endure.
But grief...
Grief wasn't pain.
It was a pause—
where everything stopped,
and then dared you to keep breathing.
⸻
He stood before the gravestone.
The wind was gentle.
The sky, not quite mourning.
There were no flowers.
Just soil.
And footsteps behind him.
⸻
He didn't turn.
Didn't need to.
The old man's gait was distinct.
Measured.
Controlled.
Grandfather Xue stood a few feet away.
Not close enough to speak.
Not far enough to pretend he wasn't there.
Xue Zhen bowed.
The old man watched.
Then turned away.
Wordless.
But Xue Zhen heard it all in that silence.
"I grieve, but I do not know how to say sorry."
"She was my failure... and yours."
⸻
The wind was biting, and the earth still fresh. A thin layer of snow veiled the grave like lace torn too early from the altar.
Xue Rui had walked away with his cane tapping the stone, not sparing a glance behind him.
Yiran arrived only then.
Black coat. Black boots. Black gloves. Hair unbound, wind-whipped like a protest. She walked past the line of family cars without slowing, heels crunching on snow. She stopped beside the gravestone where he stood.
Xue Zhen didn't look at her. She didn't look at him either. Only the name carved into the stone.
"Xue Ning," she murmured. "They called you a good girl. They don't know a damn thing."
Silence.
"You called me once," she said. "After the surgery. You said, 'I guess they thought I wouldn't mind.' Then you laughed. Like it was a joke. Like they didn't carve you out and leave you to rot."
Her voice tightened.
"You cried after hanging up. I know because I called you back. You didn't answer. So I called Grandfather. First and last time."
Her eyes dropped to the soil, jaw clenched.
"And nothing changed."
Beside her, Xue Zhen remained quiet. He hadn't moved since she arrived. Cold had crept past his gloves, but he stood as if rooted there.
His gaze didn't leave the tombstone either.
"You didn't vote for me," he said after a beat. "You voted against them."
Yiran didn't deny it.
He turned slightly, eyes scanning her face—this cousin he'd never really spoken to. Jet-lagged and defiant that day in the boardroom, she had landed from LAX and sat down at the board table with her earphones still tangled around her collar. Said nothing. Just raised her hand when the vote came. And left.
"I wondered if you even knew her," he added, quieter.
"I did," Yiran replied. "Not well. But enough."
They both looked forward again.
"I thought the world revolved around you," she said flatly. "And it still does."
A bitter silence.
"And still, she died."
He didn't flinch. Didn't argue.
"I tried to keep her here," he said. "But maybe that's just another story I told myself."
The wind swept a pine scent between them—raw and biting, like her perfume and his natural scent collided and cancelled each other out.
Yiran dropped a small folded note onto the grave. The wind made it flutter slightly before it settled against the stone.
"I wrote her sometimes. Even if she never answered."
She turned then, finally meeting his eyes.
"Don't fail her again."
And just like that, she walked away. Back to the line of cars. Back to silence.
Xue Zhen remained standing, eyes on the note.
The words "don't fail her again" echoed in his chest like a war drum.
⸻
Later that night, Xue Zhen entered Xue Ning's room at the Xue estate.
Everything had been left untouched.
A scarf, folded once.
The book read countless times, left under her pillow.
A bottle of perfume—barely used.
He opened the cap.
The scent hit him like a memory.
And he broke.
⸻
He took everything.
Called for Mr. Yuwen.
Asked him to resign from the main house.
There was no reason to stay.
Together, they moved into a new residence.
Far enough from the Xue estate to feel free.
⸻
Xue Zhen never spoke of the doctors.
Of the weakness he couldn't shake.
Of how every test said he was fine, and yet he felt—
"Like my body gave up the day she did."