The winter sun spilled through tall windows, pale but steady, softening the corners of the vast mansion. In the quiet study, a faint smell of sandalwood clung to the shelves. Rows of books stood in their place, spines glinting faintly, their order pristine as though no one had yet touched them.
Lin Qing Yun sat at the low reading chair by the window. The book in her lap had been open to the same page for half an hour. She wasn't reading—her gaze hovered over the characters, unfocused, like someone drifting between memory and silence.
Gu Ze Yan had been watching her from the doorway for a while. The morning light brushed her cheek, revealed the faint scratch still healing there. It made her look fragile, yet at the same time untouchably calm. He wanted to step forward, to say something, but every time the words rose, he swallowed them back.
At last, Qing Yun's voice broke the silence.
"Mr. Gu," she said softly, polite, measured. "May I return to my apartment?"
The sentence landed like a blade.
Ze Yan froze. The air thickened around him. He had been waiting for her to speak, but not like this—not a request that pulled her away from him, away from this house he had filled with his dreams of her.
His throat tightened. "Your apartment… Qing Yun, I could fit two years of your life in one suitcase. Why live like that? Why cage yourself in a place that looks more like a prison than a home?"
She shook her head, her fingers tracing the edge of the book. Her tone didn't rise, didn't falter. It was as calm as water.
"It isn't a jail," she said. "It is my sanctuary. The only place where I have ever felt… content."
Ze Yan stepped closer, searching her face. "But that place has nothing."
"I don't need anything." She closed the book and laid it gently on the table, her eyes drifting toward the garden beyond the glass. "I'm tired of wanting. To feel enough… is already a relief."
Her words wrapped around his chest like iron chains.
She sat so upright, so elegant, yet so impossibly distant. Her sadness wasn't loud—it was quiet, like a candle that had already burned low, no longer flickering, only fading.
Ze Yan's lips parted but no words came. He lowered himself into the chair beside her. For a while, the only sound was the koi pond water outside, the faint tapping of bamboo against stone. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She didn't flinch, didn't smile, didn't respond. Her stillness scared him more than anger ever could.
Am I even here in her eyes?
He leaned forward slightly, his voice hoarse. "Even if you don't love life right now… I'll still be here."
---
Afternoon
When the sun turned warmer and shadows stretched across the garden, Ze Yan tried again. He didn't drag her. He didn't command her. He simply stood, extended his hand, and asked softly, "Would you walk with me?"
For a moment she hesitated. Then she placed her fingers lightly in his palm. Her touch was feather-light, as though she could withdraw at any second.
He held it carefully, afraid to grip too hard, and paced his steps with hers as they walked the stone path outside.
The garden had been designed for peace: bamboo swayed, plum blossoms clung stubbornly to branches, and koi stirred ripples in the pond. Two bright birds darted past them, chasing each other in a playful arc.
"Look," Ze Yan said, pointing upward, his voice carrying a flicker of boyish excitement. "They're playing together."
Qing Yun lifted her gaze briefly, eyes following the birds for a second. Then her lashes lowered again. Her face remained unlit.
Ze Yan felt his chest tighten. Inside, he repeated to himself: It's okay. Don't rush. Take it slow.
The walk ended in silence, the same way it began. Yet even that silence, he told himself, was better than her absence.
---
Evening
After dinner, she excused herself to bathe. Ze Yan waited outside the door, pacing the corridor like a restless guardian. When she emerged, her hair was damp, a towel draped loosely around her shoulders.
Before she could lift it, he stepped forward.
"Let me," he murmured.
She blinked at him, but said nothing as he gently took the towel from her hands. Standing behind her, he pressed the fabric lightly to her hair, soaking away the moisture. His movements were patient, slow, as if each strand was precious. Then he let the towel fall across his shoulder and combed through her hair with his fingers.
The fragrance of her shampoo filled the space between them, faintly sweet. Her head bowed slightly beneath his hand, her lashes lowered, her expression unreadable.
His voice dropped, warm and quiet: "Don't fall asleep with wet hair. You'll wake up with a headache."
For a heartbeat, the air stilled.
She didn't reply. She didn't move away either. She simply closed her eyes a fraction, as if accepting this small piece of care.
---
That night, when she finally lay down in the guest suite, the house fell into silence. Outside, the koi pond whispered. Inside, Ze Yan sat in the armchair by her bed, watching her. She turned to her side, back facing him, her breathing steady.
He rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, and let out a long, shaky breath.
She was here. But she was slipping through his fingers like water.
And he was terrified he didn't know how to hold her anymore.