Storm on the Road

The sky cracked open just past noon.

It began with a gust of wind that carried the scent of rain-soaked soil. Then came the clouds—thick, bruised, and rolling over the hills like a tide. Wenyan and Lianfang barely had time to secure their belongings before the storm descended.

Rain lashed at them like flung stones, drenching their cloaks and soaking their boots in minutes. The trail had become a river of mud, and each step forward was a fight against slipping backward.

"We need shelter," Wenyan shouted, water dripping from his hair into his eyes.

Lianfang pointed ahead through the downpour. "There! I see something—just off the road!"

They scrambled toward a grove of trees, where a sagging wooden structure stood half-hidden behind tangled bramble. It wasn't much—just a shed with broken shutters and a roof patched with moss—but it was dry. Or dry enough.

Inside, they found it mostly empty save for a pile of straw, a rusted sickle, and an old clay jug that still held the sharp tang of rice wine.

Wenyan dropped their satchel and leaned against the wall, chest heaving. "So much for traveling light."

Lianfang let out a breathless laugh, wiping her face. "At least we didn't drown."

The rain roared on, turning the world outside into a silver curtain. Inside, it was dim and close, but for the first time in hours, they were warm.

They shed their cloaks and sat on the straw, steam rising faintly from their soaked clothes. Wenyan's hands trembled—not from cold, but from exhaustion.

"You're shaking," Lianfang said, moving closer. "When did you last eat?"

He didn't answer.

She reached for his wrist, checking his pulse the way her old maid used to do when she was ill. "You're burning up."

"I'm fine," Wenyan muttered, but his voice was hoarse, his body slumped.

"You're not."

By nightfall, Wenyan had fallen into a fevered sleep. His breath came in shallow waves, and his forehead was hot to the touch. Lianfang found an old cloth among their things, soaked it with rainwater, and placed it across his brow.

She sat beside him, back against the wall, knees drawn up. The storm outside showed no signs of letting up.

She hadn't realized how deeply she relied on his steadiness—his quiet courage, the way he always seemed to know what to do. Seeing him this weak made her heart twist in ways she didn't fully understand.

"Don't you dare die on me," she whispered.

It came out sharper than she meant.

She softened her voice. "I left everything behind because I believed in you. Because you believed in me."

She reached into his satchel and pulled out his book of poems—the one he never let go of. The leather cover was damp, the corners frayed. She opened to a page marked with a thin slip of paper.

"In silence, the lotus blooms unseen.

In darkness, the moth finds the moon.

When all roads are closed,

The heart makes its own."

She traced the lines with her finger. He had written it before they met, but somehow, it felt like it belonged to them now.

She read it aloud softly, over and over again, until she was no longer sure whether she was reading it for him or for herself.

Wenyan stirred near dawn.

His fever hadn't broken, but his breathing was steadier. When he opened his eyes briefly, they met hers—and for a moment, he smiled.

"You're still here," he rasped.

"Of course I'm here," she said, brushing his hair from his face.

"Did we… survive the storm?"

"We did."

"Good," he murmured. "I was afraid I'd wake up alone."

By midday, the storm had passed.

The sky was pale and bright, the air fresh with the scent of pine and soaked earth. Wenyan could sit up, though he leaned heavily against the wall. Lianfang brewed a thin porridge from the last of their grain and fed him slowly.

As he ate, she watched him closely.

"You're stronger than you think," she said.

"I'm just good at pretending," he replied with a weak grin.

She nodded. "Well, pretend a little longer. I still need you."

Before they left the shelter, Lianfang stood in the doorway, looking at the washed world ahead. The road had turned to mush, but it was open. The sun had begun to break through the clouds, casting streaks of gold across the wet earth.

Wenyan stepped beside her, leaning on a makeshift walking stick.

"We don't have much left," he said.

"No. But we still have us."

He looked at her, eyes filled with both gratitude and uncertainty. "Is that enough?"

Lianfang took his hand.

"It has to be."