The morning mist had barely lifted when Mingyue was summoned to the Sect Leader's study.The doors, long closed to all but Nie Xiaohuan, stood open at last. Dust softened the floor, and sunlight poured through the latticed windows in trembling threads. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the still air — aged, familiar, half-forgotten.
Ling Xiuyuan sat within, robe sleeves gathered neatly, the low table before him covered in faded scrolls and cracked jade seals. His gaze was calm, his posture exact, as though time itself had frozen around him.
"Come here," he said.
Mingyue bowed low. "Yes, Shizun."
The word passed through the quiet like a soft ripple. Xiuyuan did not react; his eyes lowered briefly, unreadable.He reached for a scroll instead, his voice steady."Sort these by year."
"Yes, Shizun."
Mingyue knelt beside him. His sleeves brushed the table's edge as he began his task. Xiuyuan watched the faint motion of his hands — calm, precise — each movement a reminder of something that should have been long buried. Dust swirled lazily in the light between them.
Outside, the pines whispered. A single blossom drifted through the open window and landed on a scroll.
"Seven years," Xiuyuan said softly. "This room has stood closed for seven years."
Mingyue's tone was mild. "Then perhaps it's time to let it breathe again, Shizun."
A faint pause. Then Xiuyuan answered, "Perhaps."
They worked in silence. The crackle of the brazier and the rustle of paper were the only sounds. Sometimes Mingyue's sleeve brushed his robe, light as a breath, and Xiuyuan's gaze flickered without meaning to. Time seemed suspended, stretched thin between memory and the present.
When the scrolls were ordered and the table cleared, Mingyue rose to pour tea. The motion was graceful — measured, instinctive. Steam curled between them, catching the sunlight like smoke from a half-burnt dream.
"You brew it well," Xiuyuan said.
Mingyue smiled faintly. "I once served an old master. Perhaps that's why."
Xiuyuan inclined his head. He accepted the cup; their fingers brushed — a fleeting, wordless contact. Neither spoke. The scent of tea mingled with old incense, thin and sweet.
By afternoon, sunlight spilled across the courtyards of Xianxiu Peak, turning the pines to burnished gold. Nie Xiaohuan stood before the study door, hands folded behind his back, listening to the faint rustle of scrolls within.
He had not heard that sound in seven years.
When Mingyue finally emerged, he carried a tray of empty teacups. His steps were quiet, his face calm, but something in his gaze lingered — a trace of warmth, or sorrow, that Xiaohuan could not name. The air around him still carried the faint fragrance of sandalwood and ink.
Xiaohuan's eyes followed him for a moment. "You were inside long."Mingyue bowed. "Shizun asked me to help sort the old scrolls."There was no pride in his tone, no hesitation — only simple fact.Then he turned and walked away toward the servant's wing, light glinting on the edge of his sleeve.
When he was gone, Xiaohuan opened the door.
Inside, the study was bathed in quiet amber light. The air shimmered with incense, newly lit. Ling Xiuyuan sat at the low table, one hand resting near the cold teacup Mingyue had left. His expression was unreadable, but his posture — once rigid, unyielding — had softened.
"Shizun," Xiaohuan said softly, bowing.
Xiuyuan looked up. "Mm." His voice was low, almost gentle. "You've come."
Xiaohuan stepped forward. "It pleases me to see you here again.""Perhaps it is time," he said. "Even dust cannot lie still forever."
He turned a scroll in his hand. The candlelight brushed the fine lines at his temples, the years of silence etched there. Xiaohuan's throat tightened. He had prayed for this moment — for his Shizun to live again, to breathe beyond grief — and yet, now that it came, unease stirred like shadow beneath the warmth.
His gaze drifted to the incense burner. "It smells different," he said.
Xiuyuan nodded faintly. "Mingyue lit it."
The words were spoken without thought — calm, simple. But in them lay something that made Xiaohuan's chest ache. He bowed again to hide it."I see. He… seems diligent."
"He is," Xiuyuan said. "Quiet, and careful."
The silence that followed was light, but it hummed.Through the open window came the soft murmur of disciples training below. Xiaohuan watched his Shizun's hand rest briefly against the edge of the table — the same hand that once trembled before an unmarked shrine.
He bowed once more. "If there is nothing further, Shizun, I will prepare the evening hall.""Go," Xiuyuan said gently.
Outside, dusk gathered over the mountain paths. Xiaohuan descended the steps slowly, his mind full of the scent that clung to his sleeves — sandalwood, tea, and something faintly human. He had never thought to envy anyone who stood near Xiuyuan; now he did not know what to feel.
Far behind him, the study door slid shut. From within came a faint sound — the strike of flint, the whisper of a match — as Xiuyuan lit the last stick of incense.
Its smoke curled upward, pale and unbroken, until it vanished into the darkening sky.