The night had a stillness that belonged only to early spring.
The kind of stillness where every sound—water rippling, bamboo stirring—was carried further than usual, as though the world had decided to lean closer and listen.
The tea pavilion stood like a lantern in the garden, its wooden frame glowing beneath the paper lamps strung above the koi pond. The water mirrored the night sky, broken only by the soft flick of golden fins gliding beneath the surface. From where they sat, the world outside felt impossibly far away: no city lights, no traffic hum, just lantern glow, tea steam, and silence.
Gu Ze Yan lifted the teapot and poured. The stream of fragrant tea curved like liquid amber into Qing Yun's porcelain cup. He had searched for this blend himself—a floral oolong with notes of osmanthus, something he remembered her enjoying years ago. Back then she would smile faintly after the first sip, her eyes softening in a way that lingered longer in his mind than any fragrance.
Tonight, her fingers wrapped around the cup, steady and elegant. She lifted it to her lips. No smile followed. Only silence.
Ze Yan mirrored her, sipping his own cup. He did not rush the moment. He had learned, through painful years, that with her, silence was as important as words. Sometimes more.
The koi splashed once, breaking the stillness. A lantern swayed overhead, spilling ripples of light across the water.
Finally, Qing Yun spoke.
Her voice was quiet, not soft but measured, like a blade wrapped in silk.
"Gu Ze Yan… why don't you let go?"
Ze Yan's fingers tightened on the porcelain, but he kept his gaze steady.
"I said those painful words years ago," she continued, eyes lowered to the tea in her hands. "And yet you're still here. You built all this—" her glance flicked toward the mansion beyond the trees, the glowing windows, the serene garden "—for what? For who?"
Her words pierced him, not because of cruelty, but because of their calmness. She was not lashing out. She was stating facts, like reading from a book already closed.
Ze Yan set his cup down carefully. The clink against the table felt louder than it should.
"That day," he said, his voice deep but controlled, "when you left… I asked myself that same question, every single night. For years."
Her gaze remained averted. He leaned forward slightly, studying her profile lit by lantern glow.
"So tell me," he asked, the question that had haunted him longer than any boardroom battle. "Did you… ever love me?"
Qing Yun froze, then slowly turned her head. Her eyes met his—dark, fathomless, calm like deep water.
Her lips parted, hesitated, then closed again. It took her several heartbeats before she spoke.
"Before… Si Yao…"
The name trembled in the air, fragile as glass.
"…before her," Qing Yun said, her voice lower now, "I did see you as something else. You were kind. To me, to us. I knew you loved me. And I wanted to repay you in my own way." Her fingers curled slightly against her cup. "But maybe, I didn't love you enough. Not enough to stay strong. Not enough to stay as Sunny."
Her eyes drifted toward the pond. Lantern light trembled across her face.
"So I want you to let go. Don't waste your love on Sunny."
The words hung heavy, their echo pressing into the silence.
Ze Yan felt something break in him—but it was not despair. It was clarity. Slowly, carefully, he exhaled.
"I know," he said.
Qing Yun blinked, startled.
"I believed you," he continued, voice low but unwavering. "So I did let go."
Her brows furrowed faintly, as if she had misheard.
He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table, his gaze fixed only on her.
"I didn't spend these five years waiting for Sunny. I was waiting for someone else."
Her lips parted slightly, confusion shadowing her calm expression.
He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against her cheek. She flinched—not away, but as if startled by the gentleness. He cupped her cheek lightly, his palm warm against her cool skin.
"I was waiting for Lin Qing Yun," he said. His breath shuddered, but his eyes burned steady. "I want to know her."
Her gaze locked onto his, searching.
"Yes, I loved Sunny," he admitted. "But it was selfish. I loved her because—because of her smile, her joy, her brightness. She became my everything, and I didn't care about anything else. I didn't care about her sadness. I didn't care about her exhaustion. I only wanted her smile, for myself. That was selfish. That was one-sided."
His voice deepened, reverberating with years of unsaid truth.
"But now… I want Lin Qing Yun. Nevertheless. I want to stay with you—eventhough."
Qing Yun's lips trembled faintly. Her throat moved as she swallowed, her composure flickering.
"Even if I might never return?" she whispered.
Ze Yan's thumb stroked her cheek softly, reverently.
"Nevertheless," he breathed. "I'll walk with you."
Her breath caught. She stared at him, eyes wavering for the first time, no longer calm oceans but waters rippling with something unspoken.
"Let me know you, Lin Qing Yun," he whispered, leaning closer. "Let me see everything—even your weakness, even your shadows. Look into me, and you'll see: I'll be here. Always."
Her eyes glistened faintly, though no tears fell. She searched his face, as though looking for cracks, lies, illusions. But she found none. Only sincerity carved deep into his gaze.
"Is it worth it?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly. "Don't you want happiness? Don't you feel tired?"
Ze Yan shook his head slowly. His hand slid down to clasp hers, holding it firmly.
"I'll take it all, Qing Yun. I'll take all of you. Even like this… even now… this moment is worth everything to me."
Silence returned, but it was no longer empty. It pulsed with something fragile, something alive.
The koi rippled the water. Lanterns swayed gently. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird cried once.
They sat together, sipping tea slowly. No more words were needed. In the quiet, something shifted. Not a miracle. Not transformation. But a beginning—small, delicate, like a faint ember glowing in ash.
For the first time in years, Qing Yun's presence didn't feel like absence. She was there. Fully, painfully, beautifully there.
Her eyes softened, just slightly, as she looked at the koi pond. Lantern light brushed against her face, and for a fleeting second, Ze Yan thought he saw it—the faintest flicker of light, not Sunny's brilliance, but Qing Yun's own.
The weight on his chest loosened. Just a little. Enough to breathe.
As the night deepened, Qing Yun's body leaned, almost unconsciously, toward him. Her head found his shoulder, resting there lightly.
Ze Yan froze. His entire body tensed, afraid to move, afraid to scare her away. But when her breathing steadied, slow and even, he allowed himself a smile.
He stayed still, cherishing the warmth against him. His hand hovered for a moment, then settled gently on her hair, stroking once with infinite tenderness.
When she finally fell asleep, he remained for a long time, simply watching her, memorizing the rise and fall of her breath.
At last, he moved carefully, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. She stirred faintly but did not wake.
Ze Yan carried her back through the quiet halls, his steps measured, his heart full. He laid her gently onto the bed, tucking the quilt around her with reverence.
He lingered, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. His voice was a whisper, a vow.
"Even if you never return… I'll still be here."
Her sleeping face softened, as though she heard him in her dreams.
Ze Yan sat beside her until dawn threatened the horizon.
For once, the night did not feel endless.