The drizzle had returned by the time Li Shui reached the familiar lane to Willow Rest, turning the cobblestones slick and the air thick with the scent of wet earth. The streets felt different—narrower, somehow, as if the buildings leaned in to listen. A vendor's call cut off mid-word when he passed; two women at a laundry basin fell silent, their eyes following the half-and-half cloak's sway. Whispers drifted behind him like smoke: "...the orphan boy... dragon of gold... shook the pavilion..."
He kept his gaze forward, ponytail damp against his neck, hands tucked into his sleeves. The deep-blue left half of the cloak hung heavy with absorbed mist; the pale water-blue right half shimmered faintly, as if reluctant to release the light it had caught earlier.
The orphanage gate creaked open under his touch. The courtyard lay empty in the fading afternoon, the old willow tree's branches drooping low, droplets falling in slow, steady rhythm. No children shouted from the windows. No rhythmic thud of Da Niu's axe echoed from the wood yard. Only silence, waiting.
He stepped inside.
The dining hall door opened before he reached it.
Xiao He stood there, small frame silhouetted against the warm hearth light, eyes wide and searching. The boy didn't run this time. He took one hesitant step, then another, stopping just short of reaching out.
"You're back," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "They said... the dragon was real. Gold and stars. Like in the stories."
Li Shui paused, meeting the boy's gaze. "It was."
Xiao He's lip trembled. He hugged his arms to his chest, as if holding something in. "Does that mean... you'll go away? The big places—they take people like that, right? With dragons and oceans inside."
Da Niu appeared behind him, broad shoulders filling the doorway, flour still dusting his sleeves from the kitchen. His usual grin was gone, replaced by a tight line around his mouth. He rested a heavy hand on Xiao He's shoulder, but his eyes stayed on Li Shui—searching, worried.
"Whole market's talking," Da Niu said, voice low. "Runners came by earlier, asking questions. 'The quiet one from Willow Rest—dragon resonance?' Aunt Lan sent them off, but..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's different now, isn't it?"
Ah Lan slipped out from the side room, notebook clutched tight, her sharp eyes scanning Li Shui as if looking for cracks. She didn't speak at first, just stopped beside Da Niu, her fingers twisting the book's edge.
Aunt Lan's cane tapped once from deeper in the hall—a slow, deliberate sound that drew them all inside.
The dining hall felt smaller than usual, the hearth fire crackling low against the chill seeping through the walls. Bowls of thin congee steamed on the table, thickened with whatever scraps remained—mostly greens, a few bits of salted fish. No extras today. Just enough.
They sat in silence at first, spoons scraping softly. Xiao He picked at his bowl, pushing pieces around without eating. Da Niu ate mechanically, his gaze flicking to the windows every few moments. Ah Lan's pen hovered over her page, but no words came.
Aunt Lan broke the quiet, her voice steady but edged with fatigue.
"A man came this morning," she said. "Grey robes, polite smile. Asked about the boy who 'called thunder in the pavilion.' Said he was just curious. I told him we had no such child." Her eyes met Li Shui's across the table. "But curiosity spreads. By tomorrow, it'll be more than questions."
Xiao He set his spoon down with a clink. "If they come... will they take you?"
Da Niu's fist tightened around his bowl. "They better not try. This place—it's home. You belong here."
Ah Lan finally spoke, voice quiet but sharp. "Belonging changes when the world notices. Rumors already say the dragon cracked the dome, or breathed star-fire. Exaggerated, but... it'll bring eyes. And eyes bring trouble. For all of us."
Li Shui ate slowly, the congee warm but heavy on his tongue. The upper eighth-grade water flowed calm inside him—familiar, steady, like the river he had always known. But the Celestial Dragon... it stirred faintly, a low pressure building in his lower palace. Not pain. Hunger. Restlessness. Wings flexing against unseen bars, golden scales brushing the edges of his awareness. Watching. Waiting.
He set his spoon down.
"The dragon is awake," he said quietly. "It... watches."
Xiao He's eyes widened further. Da Niu leaned forward. "Watches what?"
Li Shui looked around the table—at the worn wood scarred by years, at Xiao He's small hands clenched in his lap, at Ah Lan's worried notes, at Aunt Lan's steady gaze holding back a storm of its own.
"Everything," he said. "Including this place."
The fire popped in the hearth, sparks rising briefly before dying.
Outside, the drizzle thickened into rain, drumming softly on the roof.
No one spoke of leaving.
No one spoke of staying.
The whispers from the city crept closer, carried on the wind.
And in the quiet of Willow Rest, the weight of what had awakened settled over them all—not as glory, but as the first shadow of change.
Li Shui closed his eyes for a moment.
The water remained calm.
The dragon watched.
And tomorrow, the world would knock louder.