Ling Xiuyuan sat alone by the window of his room. The faint light of a candle painted long, wavering shadows across his face. He had not slept. His mind lingered on the tree—the roots that breathed, the voice, and the feeling that even in silence, it still watched.
A low wind brushed through the shutters, stirring the flame.He exhaled slowly, setting aside the talisman he had been reforging.
Then—soft footsteps. Hesitant. Barely a sound, yet unmistakable.
He turned.The door slid open a fraction, and a familiar face peeked through, eyes wide and uncertain.
"Shen Lianxiu," Xiuyuan said quietly, his tone halfway between surprise and resignation. "You should be resting."
Lianxiu slipped inside at once, closing the door behind him. His robe hung loose, hair slightly disheveled, a faint trace of rain on his sleeves. "I couldn't," he murmured. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear it breathing again."
Xiuyuan regarded him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he gestured toward the candle. "It's only memory. The spirit's gone."
"But what if it isn't?" Lianxiu asked, stepping closer. "What if it followed us back?"
The flicker of the candle caught the worry in his eyes—too genuine to dismiss. He stood there like a child caught in the dark, all his usual mischief stripped away.
Xiuyuan sighed softly. "You shouldn't wander at night."
"I know," Lianxiu said, voice small. "But I thought… if I stayed here, maybe it would stop whispering."
A pause.Then, almost pleading: "Can I stay, shixiong?"
The words hung between them like a thread pulled taut.
Xiuyuan's first instinct was to refuse—discipline, propriety, the quiet distance he had always maintained. But when he looked at Lianxiu, trembling ever so slightly under the dim candlelight, something in him softened.
He set his brush aside. "Just for tonight."
Lianxiu's eyes lit faintly. "I won't talk," he promised quickly, though he was already padding toward the far side of the room. "I'll just… sit."
He settled by the low table, knees drawn close, watching the candle's flame dance. Xiuyuan returned to his seat by the window, but his gaze drifted often toward the boy's silhouette.
The wind sighed again. The flame flickered.
Outside, somewhere distant, the forest groaned—a long, hollow sound like the creak of roots shifting underground.
Lianxiu looked up sharply. "Did you hear—"
"I heard," Xiuyuan said, calm but tense.
The inn's timbers gave a faint shudder, dust sifting down from the rafters. Xiuyuan rose at once, moving to the door, senses reaching outward. No spiritual disturbance—yet the air itself seemed alive.
He turned back. Lianxiu was standing now, pale and wide-eyed.
"Stay close," Xiuyuan said softly.
Lianxiu obeyed without thought, stepping near until his sleeve brushed Xiuyuan's arm. For a moment they stood like that—still, listening.
Then, as the wind passed, the tension ebbed. The sound faded.
"It's gone," Xiuyuan murmured.
But Lianxiu didn't move away. His head had bowed slightly, as though the calm itself had stolen his strength.
Ling Xiuyuan turned, his breath faintly visible in the cold air. Shen Lianxiu stood a few paces away, head bowed. The flickering lanternlight caught on his hair, on the curve of his cheek — flushed red as if the chill had not touched him at all.
"Shen Lianxiu?" Xiuyuan called softly.
The boy did not answer. His hands were clenched at his sides; his shoulders trembled — not from fear. When he finally raised his head, his eyes were bright and restless, the kind of gaze that made Xiuyuan's heart falter for reasons he refused to name.
"You're trembling," Xiuyuan said, stepping closer, intending to check his pulse. But before he could, Lianxiu moved. His fingers caught Xiuyuan's wrist — quick, sure, a touch both hesitant and daring.
"Shixiong," he said, voice low, the name drawn out like a secret. "You… you're testing the patience of a young man in his very new youth."
The words struck Xiuyuan like the sudden ring of a bell in fog. His breath caught. "Shen Lianxiu—" he began, meaning to scold, yet his voice came out softer than intended.
Lianxiu's grip did not loosen. "Don't you ever feel pity on me?" he murmured, head lowered again, lashes trembling. "Standing so close to you, pretending it means nothing?"
Xiuyuan's ears burned crimson. He tried to pull back, though even he knew it was half-hearted. "You speak nonsense," he said, and the words quivered between them.
Lianxiu lifted his gaze, and the boldness there was almost unbearable. "Then allow me one thing," he whispered. "Just… to stand close. Like lovers do."
His hand slid around Xiuyuan's waist— the warmth of it seemed to burn through layers of cloth. Xiuyuan turned his face away, the pulse at his throat betraying him.
"We are not—" he began, but the sentence dissolved.
Lianxiu looked at his reaction and smiled faintly, the kind that belonged to both devotion and mischief. "Your words deny it," he said quietly, "but your silence doesn't."
The world around them held its breath — no wind, no sound, only the thundering quiet of two hearts caught between what they must not feel and what they already do.