The morning air in Liangcheng carried the faintest chill, soft enough that their breaths fogged when they stepped out of the mansion gate. Qing Yun had packed light—two coats, one dress, a few books. She thought they were heading for the mountain hot springs an hour away.
Ze Yan didn't say much. Only that she should bring gloves.
In the car, she kept glancing at him. "You're smiling like someone with a secret."
"Maybe I am."
Her brow arched. "You're not taking me to another conference, are you?"
"Would I dare?" he replied lightly, checking something on his phone before taking her hand. "You'll see soon."
---
The jet door opened to the cold scent of Europe. The air was sharp, bright, unfamiliar. Qing Yun blinked at the sign that read Amsterdam Schiphol Airport.
Her voice rose before she could stop it. "Ze Yan—this isn't a domestic flight."
"Observation skills impressive as always."
He squeezed her fingers, lips curved. "You said once you wanted to see places where roofs still breathe and water replaces streets."
"I said that years ago."
"I remember."
Qing Yun fell silent. The man beside her was wearing his usual calm, but there was something in his eyes—like a long-kept promise finally delivered.
---
They drove north through flat meadows, canals lined with frozen reeds. Two hours later, the car slowed before a row of thatched cottages that looked as if they'd stepped out of an old painting.
The sign read: Giethoorn Village.
The villa he'd rented stood at the end of a narrow canal, its reflection trembling on half-frozen water. Inside smelled of pinewood and citrus oil. A small fire was already burning.
Qing Yun stood by the window, watching a swan glide past. "So this is it? The secret?"
"For now." He wrapped his coat around her shoulders from behind. "You've spent too long staying still for others. Let me show you how the world moves."
She turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing his. "You planned all this?"
"Planned is a strong word. I call it an educated impulse."
Her laugh was soft. "Educated or expensive?"
"Both."
---
Afternoon on the Canals
By afternoon, the village felt like a whisper. Boats drifted lazily down narrow waterways, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and frost. Ze Yan rowed with quiet confidence while she sat wrapped in a gray scarf, sketchbook open on her knees.
"You're not afraid of falling?" he asked.
"I trust your rowing more than your driving," she said without looking up.
He chuckled. "High praise."
They floated past small bridges draped with snow. From a window, an old woman waved; Qing Yun waved back.
"I like it here," she murmured. "It feels… timeless."
"That's the point."
He let the boat drift near the bank, the oar barely moving. "Tell me what you're thinking."
She closed her book, resting her chin on her knees. "That peace feels foreign. It's strange when silence doesn't mean loneliness."
Ze Yan smiled faintly. "Then you're learning again."
---
Evening Fireplace
After dinner—roast duck, mulled wine, laughter over who burnt the bread—the two sat by the fire. Outside, the canals gleamed under a pale moon.
Qing Yun leaned her head on his shoulder. "So, where's next? You said this is only the first stop."
"You'll see."
"You're enjoying keeping secrets lately."
"Marriage changes a man."
She laughed. "You sound proud."
"I am." He looked down at her, eyes warm. "Do you regret saying yes?"
She thought for a while. The flames danced in her reflection.
"No," she said finally. "Just trying to get used to calling you my husband."
"Don't try," he said. "Just do."
She turned to face him, half-smiling. "Then you'll have to get used to me correcting you when you're wrong."
"I already have," he murmured, leaning close enough that their foreheads touched.
---
Late-Night Letters
While Ze Yan showered, Qing Yun sat by the window desk, writing postcards.
One for Master Shen—The rooftops here look like brush strokes.
One for Aunt Liu—We are well. He still forgets to dry his hair.
When Ze Yan came out, toweling his hair, he saw the stack of cards. "You're documenting our escape."
"Restoration of memory," she said. "If we don't record it, it fades."
He leaned over, reading her tidy script. "Send one to yourself."
She looked up. "Why?"
"So you'll remember how peace looks when you start working again."
Her heart squeezed a little. "You sound like you think I'll forget."
"You always do when you care too much," he said quietly, slipping an arm around her waist. "That's why I'm writing it with you."
---
The next morning, frost coated the roofs like icing sugar. Ze Yan found her outside, bundled in wool, sketching the reflection of the bridge.
He stood behind her, hands in pockets. "Planning to restore the whole village?"
"Maybe," she said, not turning. "If I stay long enough."
"I'd give it two weeks before you start re-tiling their roofs."
"Then it will stay alive."
He smiled. "That's exactly what I hoped you'd say."
---
They spent the last evening in Giethoorn watching snowflakes gather on the canal.
Inside, the fire snapped softly, the world shrinking to just their breathing.
Qing Yun broke the silence first. "Ze Yan… do you ever think we'll run out of good days?"
He looked at her, calm as always. "No. We'll just build new ones."
Her gaze softened. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," he said simply. "But neither were you. And yet I'm still here."
She laughed quietly. "So I'm the challenge you can't quit?"
"The reward I can't replace."
---
When the fire dimmed, they sat together on the floor, backs against the couch. She whispered, almost to herself,
"You really remembered everything I said years ago."
"I remember everything about you," he answered.
The clock ticked softly. Outside, the village was asleep.
Inside, peace filled the air—simple, ordinary, priceless.
Tomorrow they would leave for Italy. But that night, under the low wooden beams and the scent of burnt pine, Qing Yun realized something she hadn't felt in years—
that being loved quietly could feel louder than any vow.