Rain followed him home.
It clung to the city like breath on glass, soft and cold, leaving the streets gleaming under the gray sky. Li An sat in the back seat of the car, eyes half-open, watching water slide down the windows. His body was still weak, and the motion made his ribs ache.
Li Mei drove in her silence. Every now and then she glanced at him, her lips pressing together, as if she wanted to ask something but couldn't.
When they finally pulled into the private drive of the Li residence, tall iron gates, perfect gardens, the kind of house that was more museum than home, Li An's chest tightened.
He hadn't been here in months.
The last time he saw this house, he'd been leaving in a hurry. Someone had been waiting for him at the bottom of the hill, leaning on his motorcycle, smiling in that quiet, unshakable way that made Li An forget his last name, his inheritance, his fear.
Now, even thinking of that night made his hands tremble.
"Do you want me to stay tonight?" Li Mei asked gently.
He shook his head. "I'll be fine. You've done enough."
She hesitated, searching his face. "Call me if anything feels wrong, okay?"
He smiled faintly. "I will."
She touched his shoulder once, a warm, sisterly press of reassurance, then left him standing alone at the door.
Inside, the house felt like a photograph that had stopped aging.Every piece of furniture was exactly where he'd left it. His father's study door was closed. His mother's favorite vase still caught the same slice of afternoon light.
It was just the maids that were home.
Everything perfect. Everything cold.
He made his way to his room, the one tucked furthest down the hall, where he'd once hidden canvases his parents weren't supposed to see.
When he opened the door, a wave of familiarity hit him so hard it almost hurt.
The smell of turpentine. The faint hint of another's cologne — cedar, smoke, and rain.
He stood there for a long time, just breathing.
Then he noticed something strange.
His easel had been covered with a white sheet. But under the fabric, a faint smear of color peeked through wet paint, dark red and gray.
He pulled the sheet back slowly.
The canvas beneath was new. A portrait named, Ruan Ye.
His breath caught. The brushwork was his, he could recognize the motion, the small mistakes, the strokes that came only from his hand, but he didn't remember painting it.
Ruan Ye's face was soft in shadow, eyes turned slightly away, mouth curved in that same half-smile.
For a long time, Li An just stared. Then he whispered, "You're not supposed to be here."
He spent the rest of the evening unpacking. Every drawer he opened seemed to breathe. His old sketchbooks, his brushes, the scarf Ruan Ye once left behind.
The silence was thick enough to hum.
When he opened the last box, something small fell out a folded piece of paper, yellowed at the edges.
He hesitated before opening it.
It was a note, written in his own handwriting.
If you find this, it means you forgot again. Don't run. He always finds you when it rains.
Li An's fingers went cold.
He stared at the words, at his own looping signature beneath them.Forgot again?
What did that mean?
He turned toward the mirror across the room. For a moment, the reflection didn't match his own face blinked a heartbeat later than it should have.
Then, from behind him, a voice said softly, "You came back."
Li An spun around.
The room was empty.
But the air had changed warmer now, carrying the faint trace of someone's breath near his ear.
He took a step back. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Then the faintest whisper:
"You still smell like favorite addiction."
Li An's pulse jumped. He reached for the light switch, but the lamp flickered on by itself.
And there standing in the corner of the room, half lit by golden light — was Ruan Ye.
He looked the same as in the sketches.The same eyes. The same quiet sadness. The same way of looking at Li An like he was both a memory and a wound.
Li An's lips parted, his voice almost gone. "You're—"
"Late," Ruan Ye said, smiling faintly.
Something inside Li An cracked. He wanted to step closer, to touch, to prove this wasn't another cruel dream. But when he did, the air shimmered and his fingers passed through the other man's sleeve like mist.
"Don't," Ruan Ye whispered. "You'll break the bridge."
Li An's throat tightened. "The bridge?"
"Between us."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Li An felt tears prick his eyes. "You were in the car," he said softly. "That night. You—"
Ruan Ye nodded. "I stayed."
"And you died," Li An finished for him.
The ghost's expression softened. "Maybe. Maybe not. Some promises don't end that way."
Li An stepped closer again. "Why can I see you?"
Ruan Ye looked at him for a long time. "Because you never learned how to let me go."
The lamp flickered again.
Li An blinked, and Ruan Ye was gone leaving behind only the faint scent of cedar and rain.
The portrait on the easel, however, had changed.
Now it showed both of them Li An and Ruan Ye standing side by side under a red umbrella.
That night, Li An lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
And somewhere in the darkness, a soft whisper brushed against his ear:
"I kept my promise. Now you keep yours."