The mist never lifts from Snow Listening Pavilion. Liu Yuan returned from the back mountain with a basket of honeysuckle vines, mud still clinging to their roots. Steam rose from the pool in the side courtyard, and water sloshed in slow, steady waves.
“Come here.”
Liu Qingci didn't turn around. He held out a wooden ladle. Liu Yuan reached to take it, brushing his knuckles. Cold.
“Grind these up and put them on your shoulder.”
The vine bark was crushed in the stone mortar, oozing green juice. The corners of Liu Yuan's eyes slowly reddened. He told himself it was the fumes. Behind him, the water rippled, and a hand came down, its fingertips brushing the corner of his eye.
“Why are you crying again?”
Later, outsiders came from beyond the mountains. Swordlight, fire. Jiang Wantang defended the side peak, fighting off wave after wave until her blade was nicked by dawn. The day she left the mountain, the pavilion master asked where she was going. She said she was looking for her mother's sword.
The night Liu Qingci gave him the medicine, Liu Yuan didn't cry. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, and Liu Qingci bent down to seal it with his lips. The sounds around them seemed far away.
Three years later, a letter arrived: “Mr. Shen is teaching me to write. I always leave out a stroke when I write the character for ‘return.’”
Liu Yuan handed the letter to Liu Qingci. Outside the window, the mist had lifted.
Theme: Warmth in the cold, swallowed but never choked down.
