Jiang Yan spoke little. He worked in a study that always smelled faintly of ink and old rain. But he watched her. At dinner... At dusk.... Sometimes in reflection....
He watched her. Not with desire, at least not only that. With something else. Recognition, maybe. Or dread. Or hope.
Once, she caught him sketching something on old parchment, her silhouette standing by the window.
"Do you always draw your guests?" she asked softly.
He didn't look up. "You're not a guest."
Her breath caught. "Then what am I?"
He finally raised his gaze. "Someone who hasn't left yet."
"Oh," Tang Fei breathed, her heart clenching. Someone who hasn't left yet. Not someone who would stay. Not someone permanent. Just someone who was still there, temporarily solid, soon to become another outline in the garden. Another ghost to haunt these halls.
One night, unable to sleep, Lin Ruo followed the faint sound of a piano. The melody was low and trembling, like a heartbeat struggling to continue.
