A Letter in the Wind

They traveled under cover of morning mist, the monastery's silhouette disappearing behind folds of pale-blue hills. The path was quiet, save for the occasional clink of Wenyan's ink case or the crunch of frost-dusted grass beneath their feet.

Lianfang walked slightly ahead today—her posture straighter, more purposeful.

She hadn't said much since they'd left Wuyuan. Wenyan watched her, wondering what was running through her mind and whether he belonged anywhere in it.

By mid-afternoon, they came to a wooded bend in the road, where a rickety bridge crossed a narrow stream. There, waiting under a willow tree, stood a monk. He was the same one who had brought them the note.

Without a word, he stepped forward and handed Wenyan a second letter.

Wenyan frowned. "Another?"

The monk simply bowed and walked off, vanishing into the trees with the quiet grace of falling leaves.

Wenyan turned the paper in his hands. It was smaller this time, and written in Meixiang's careful, slanted calligraphy.

"Your brother searches with more heart than duty. If he sees her, he may hesitate. But others will not. You are being followed. Move west. Burn this."

Lianfang read over his shoulder. Her jaw clenched at the first sentence. "He still sees me as his sister," she murmured.

"That might save us."

"Or it might doom him."

Wenyan lit a match and burned the note by the stream, watching the paper curl and vanish in orange flame.

That night, they sheltered in a woodcutter's abandoned hut. Wind hissed through the shutters, and Wenyan's shoulder ached from carrying their packs.

He sat by the fire, carefully stirring a weak broth from dried mushrooms and millet.

Lianfang sat across from him, unwrapping her feet and rubbing them silently.

"I used to have a servant who did this for me," she said, almost absently. "Every night before bed. Now I can barely feel my toes."

He offered a tired smile. "Welcome to the world of scholars and fugitives."

She laughed, unexpectedly. It was short and surprised even her. "I must look ridiculous."

"You look alive," Wenyan said.

That quieted her.

She looked at him then—not the way she did when he was speaking, or when they were traveling—but like someone really seeing. And perhaps for the first time, she realized how tired he looked. The bags under his eyes. The way his hair had grown untidy. His hands were red from the cold, ink-stained as always, but calloused now.

"You've given up so much," she said. "Your life in Hangzhou, your writing, your name."

"I haven't given up my words," Wenyan said. "Only the world that didn't want to read them."

She looked down. "I've given up everything."

He tilted his head. "Have you?"

"My family. My future. Whatever little power I had in the world. All for this."

Her voice was soft now, brittle at the edges.

Wenyan put down the ladle. "Do you regret it?"

There was a long pause.

"I regret not being braver earlier," she whispered. "But no, I don't regret you."

They ate in silence after that, letting the fire's crackle fill the gaps. Outside, wind whistled through the bamboo, and somewhere in the dark, a fox called once—sharp and lonely.

Wenyan noticed Lianfang staring into the flames with a strange look on her face.

"What is it?"

She blinked. "I keep thinking about my brother. Haoran. He was always softer than the others. He hated seeing animals caged. Once, he let a nightingale loose from the aviary and blamed it on a servant so he wouldn't be punished."

"Do you think he's the same now?"

"I don't know," she said. "People change when they're scared."

She looked over. "Do you ever worry you'll change?"

Wenyan didn't answer immediately.

"I worry I already have."

Later, as they lay side by side in the hut, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth of each other, Lianfang broke the silence again.

"If this were a story, the kind you used to write, what would happen next?"

Wenyan turned his head, smiling in the dark. "The lovers would find an old poet's cabin by a lake. They'd live there quietly, growing tea and reading Tang verses to each other."

"That sounds nice."

"But?"

"But it doesn't feel real," she said.

"No. It doesn't."

She reached out then, her fingers brushing his.

"I don't need a poet's cabin," she said. "I just need tomorrow with you."

Wenyan's fingers curled around hers.

And together, they lay listening to the wind.