Ji Huan wasn't one for formal apologies like "pardon me" or "I beg your forgiveness." Villagers typically used the more colloquial "my apologies," but she was even more informal, with "I'm sorry" always at the ready.
Song Jing had once asked her if "I'm sorry" meant the same thing as "my apologies."
She'd nodded and, showing off a little, intentionally made it sound grand—"'I'm sorry' means 'The fault is mine; I pray for your forbearance.'"
Song Jing remembered. And now, he was saying those words to Ji Huan.
Life was truly absurd.
Ji Huan paused, then said, "You've done nothing wrong. You don't need to say those two words."
"No..." Song Jing shook his head, again and again.
He had so much he wanted to say, but he discovered that when a person is truly heartbroken, words fail them. All they can do is repeat the other's name, over and over, like a machine.
As if to set the scene, the moon, which had been hiding lazily for days, finally decided to show up for work.
