In the silence of the brewing room, Ye Yishi leaned against the doorframe, watching Liu Huanyin. Her silhouette shimmered in the dim light, her hands moving with quiet precision over the brewing pot.
"It's late," he murmured. "You should rest."
"I'm used to waiting," she replied, not turning back.
He stepped closer. "Still waiting for him?"
She stirred the petals slowly. "Aren't we all, in some way?"
There was a pause. Only the faint bubbling of the brew filled the air.
"You still hum that tune," he said quietly.
For a moment, her hands stopped. "Old habits."
"It's been a long time since you sang it," he added. "Since that night beneath the apricot blossoms."
She finally turned to face him. Her eyes held no blame—only a faint sorrow, like the scent of wine aged too long.
"You left without saying goodbye."
Ye Yishi looked down. "I had to."
"For the greater cause?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped past her and poured himself a cup of Zuihua Yin. The taste was bitter, laced with memories he had tried to bury.
Far away, in a fragment of his mind, Lao Xuan's voice echoed:
> "Swordsmanship is for those who bleed, not those who hesitate. But love—love is the sword you never learn to sheath."
Yishi sipped the wine again. "You knew I would never return."
"But I waited," she said softly. "Because some memories are more stubborn than time."
That night, two souls stood apart, bound by silence more than words.
And outside, beneath the shadow of the moon, the wind carried an old tune—soft and haunting, like the remnants of a past not yet forgiven.