The blue bed-curtains dropped down, and Shen Qingwu, cupping the candlestick carefully in both hands, moved it onto the bed with great caution.

Inside the curtains, Shen Qingwu kept her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the candle, terrified it might be blown out by a draft—every flicker of the flame made her hold her breath in sympathy. At last, she found a good spot for the candle on the bed, one where the flame wouldn’t be blown out and the candlestick wouldn’t tip over.

The corner of her mouth curved up slightly, just a small arc.

Then Shen Qingwu lifted her head, her eyes fixed on Zhang Xingjian, who’d had no choice but to make room for her candlestick.

Her expression in that moment—how to put it—resembled an obedient little dog guarding a treasure: moist-eyed, quiet, reverent.

This was hardly an expression one would expect to see on her face.

Zhang Xingjian, lost in thought, was urged on by Shen Qingwu: “Hurry up and play the tune! Don’t even think about weaseling out of it.”

She sat cross-legged, her back perfectly straight, her whole attention fixed on him, as though he were about to perform some legendary masterpiece.

A softness touched Zhang Xingjian’s eyes.

He thought of what he and Chang Lin had once learned about the Second Young Lady Shen’s past within the Shen household: unloved, always alone, forever getting into trouble, never well-liked. She’d drifted and knocked about the streets and markets, yet probably no one had ever specially played a tune to soothe her.

Whatever she’d never had, she longed for.

Shen Qingwu’s stubbornness ran far deeper and lasted far longer than most people’s.

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes, his slender, elegant fingers pinching the leaf, raising it to his lips. Under the heat of her gaze, something warmed in his chest; his lowered eyes flickered, and a rare touch of bashfulness rose in his heart.

He’d never once played a tune so earnestly for anyone before.

Such playful antics were far too undignified—his second sister had never permitted him such frivolous behavior.

Seeing him remain still for a long moment, Shen Qingwu couldn’t help growing suspicious: “Is the leaf too dry to play? Should I go pick you a fresh one?”

Eager and impatient, General Shen didn’t get an answer from him—instead, a faint, hazy tune slowly rose from beneath his lips through the leaf, drifting past her ear.

Shen Qingwu froze.

Inside the narrow curtained space, candlelight illuminated the young master’s fine, pale face, light dancing along his long, dark lashes. He’d merely pressed the leaf between his lips, and yet this faint melody emerged—it was like, like…

Some kind of magic.

The tune bursting softly at her ear was very quiet, broken and uneven from the leaf’s imperfect shape. And yet, even so, Shen Qingwu found herself transfixed, found she liked it.

So this was what it felt like.

She wasn’t sure whether she liked Zhang Xingjian the person, or his music.

But the tune kept faltering, and his face flushed red, as though the effort exhausted him…

Shen Qingwu leaned in, pressing her lips to the other side of the leaf, puffing out her cheeks and blowing—a sharp, piercing note shot out.

On the other side of the leaf, Zhang Xingjian’s lashes fluttered; he looked up in surprise, his dark, cool eyes meeting hers.

At this hair’s-breadth distance, each holding an edge of the leaf between their lips, the two young people gazed at one another.

A rare shyness came over Shen Qingwu; she released the leaf awkwardly and pulled back, explaining: “I saw you were playing so unevenly, I thought you might be out of breath, so I helped.”

Her eyes flickered: “Turns out you just weren’t very good at it to begin with.”

With all her strength, all her breath, she couldn’t manage to make the little tune come out smooth and melodic either. So it was only natural Zhang Xingjian couldn’t manage it.

Zhang Xingjian set down the leaf and said: “This takes technique…”

Shen Qingwu: “What technique? How do you play it?”

Eager with interest, she leaned in again, wanting him to teach her, but Zhang Xingjian, head lowered, paused for a moment.

He said: “I’m not Bo Rong.”

Shen Qingwu was momentarily taken aback.

She had no idea why he’d suddenly say such a thing, but she roughly understood that Zhang Xingjian was unwilling to teach her.

Why? Did he think she was too slow-witted?

But wasn’t the moon supposed to treat everyone fairly, showing no bias toward anyone? She’d tested this many times before—the way he treated Shen Qingwu was the same, more or less, as the way he treated a stray cat or dog, or Shen Qingye.

Shen Qingwu regarded him coldly; Zhang Xingjian turned his face aside and said: “If you want to learn something, you should seek out your excellent teacher, Marshal Bo. Not consult a prisoner like me.”

Shen Qingwu thought to herself: does Bo Rong even know this?

She had no way of grasping the many layers of testing folded into his words; seeing his unwillingness to teach her, she let the matter drop.

General Shen was in a good mood tonight, and had no intention of tormenting Zhang Xingjian. He ought to be grateful that his tune had pleased General Shen well enough.

And so, hands resting on her knees, Shen Qingwu said, quite calmly: “Fine. When I go back, I’ll just have Bo Rong teach me.”

Zhang Xingjian looked at her silently.

Shen Qingwu threatened him: “Why are you staring at me? Keep playing! Who said you could stop? If you dare go easy on me, you won’t be sleeping tonight.”

Zhang Xingjian had no choice but to lower his head and continue playing his little tune.

This time, though, he felt a weight settle on his knee; looking down, he saw Shen Qingwu quite naturally leaning over, resting her head on his lap. His lowered gaze fell on her upturned, fair face.

Zhang Xingjian thought silently: had she grown paler after more than a month away from the army camp? A bit more girlish, somehow…

While his mind wandered through these scattered thoughts, he tried to stop himself from thinking them at all. Distracted, his tune faltered, coming out less than pleasant to the ear.

But in the quiet, narrow room, even this unevenness took on a certain warmth.

This was the best the atmosphere between them had been in the entire month.

Zhang Xingjian very much wanted to break this atmosphere.

When the tune ended, Shen Qingwu, lying on his lap, clapped happily, every bit the pleased patron: “Lovely! You’re truly skilled—worthy of your family’s fine education.”

Lying in his lap, she turned her face toward his, gesturing animatedly: “Tomorrow I’ll show you some swordplay too. I’m the best there is with a blade. Bo Rong says I’m the most talented martial prodigy he’s ever seen. Once you see it, you’ll know how skilled I am… you couldn’t beat me.”

But Zhang Xingjian had already known of her talent for martial arts.

He himself had been the very first to discover her gift.

It had truly been him.

In the quiet, narrow curtained space, the young lady lying across Zhang Xingjian’s lap had bright eyes, their corners lifted; her long hair fell across the back of his lowered hand. Her radiant, spirited expression was, in all the years he’d known her, the closest she’d ever come to being truly herself.

The parasol tree endured loneliness, solitude, neglect, and scorn—precisely so it could grow wild and vigorous across a thousand, ten thousand years, its branches and leaves flourishing.

Looking up at the wutong tree, its blossoms seemed rather pitiable.

But it was the kind of “pitiable” that stirred fondness.

Candlelight flickered gently, wax dripping onto the candlestick.

Zhang Xingjian sat as still as carved stone. Ever since their falling-out, he’d always been like this, rarely paying her any mind, so Shen Qingwu had no idea whether his silence now differed at all from his usual silence.

Nor did she ever much care about that particular silence of his.

She talked on, pleased with herself; Zhang Xingjian did as she wished him to do, and she was already quite satisfied, feeling that her long vacation had finally settled into its proper course.

Shen Qingwu even secretly regretted not realizing sooner how useful he could be—why had she bothered playing games with him before? She should have simply taken him by force from the start—what a fine moon he was.

Let the moon’s misfortune continue.

Only a moon fallen into the abyss could be hers to toy with, hers to command.

As Shen Qingwu happily indulged these smug thoughts, she suddenly heard Zhang Xingjian speak up, asking her: “You could tell what I was playing, and that’s why you say it’s lovely?”

Of course Shen Qingwu couldn’t tell at all.

But… she said, with great seriousness: “Though I don’t know the name of the piece, I can tell it must be something quite refined. The sort of elegant classical music only the emperor gets to hear in the palace.”

Shen Qingwu sat up, facing him at eye level.

She hoped to coax him into good spirits, so that in the future he might play for her often without her having to force him.

And so, racking her brain for the right words, Shen Qingwu praised him: “This tune suits you perfectly!”

Zhang Xingjian looked at her, his gaze calm as a flowing stream, and smiled faintly.

Shen Qingwu found his smile a touch too reserved, and felt a flicker of displeasure. Most of the time she liked that refined, elegant bearing of his that no one else could imitate; but a small part of her—like right now—found his restraint, his pride, irritating.

The man was in her bed—why not let loose a little?

Shen Qingwu pressed harder with her praise, nearly exhausting every four-character phrase Bo Rong had ever taught her.

Phrases about mountains and flowing water, about melodies lingering for days—all of that sort.

Each time she spoke, the corner of his mouth curved up further, but he only smiled without answering, which gradually began to irritate Shen Qingwu.

Shen Qingwu: “I’m praising you—why do you keep smiling like that? Do you not believe my praise is sincere, or are you mocking me?”

Zhang Xingjian said unhurriedly: “Mocking you.”

With her characteristically stubborn nature, Shen Qingwu pressed: “Why are you mocking me?”

Zhang Xingjian: “What I was playing was nothing more than the vulgar little tunes street performers play for coppers, and yet General Shen praises it as though it were the height of elegance, fit for the finest halls… General Shen has no idea at all what I was actually playing, does she?”

He teased her: “Aren’t you being foolish?”

Shen Qingwu froze.

She said: “How could you know how to play some vulgar street tune?”

Zhang Xingjian countered: “Why wouldn’t I know how?”

He reminded her: “I’m not the untouchably noble figure you imagine me to be. I’m remarkably vulgar, in fact.”

Every word of his was meant to remind her, to try to shatter her illusions about him. And yet even Zhang Xingjian himself didn’t fully understand where so many of Shen Qingwu’s stubborn moments of attachment to him actually came from.

She’d touched something in his true nature—even he didn’t know what.

Sitting before Zhang Xingjian, Shen Qingwu recalled a time she’d once seen him sitting with beggars, sharing wine. He’d seemed perfectly at ease then, quite different from the usual aloof, immortal-like Zhang Xingjian she knew.

The moon was, in fact, a rather easygoing moon.

Her eyes brightened.

She was fixated on that indifferent air of his, the way he seemed equally accepting of anyone. A moon that accepted anything, an easygoing moon—only such a moon would accept someone as unconventional as Shen Qingwu.

Shen Qingwu murmured: “This long leave of mine must be the smartest decision I’ve ever made.”

Zhang Xingjian raised an eyebrow.

The next moment, Shen Qingwu tackled him down onto the bed. The candle flame went out instantly, plunging the curtained space into darkness.

Zhang Xingjian gasped, his waist pinned beneath her, the corner of his mouth caught between her teeth. He’d genuinely ended up entangled with some unruly, feral beast, pouncing on him to do as it pleased. His breath came ragged, his whole body burning; with difficulty, he caught her hand as it slipped inside his collar.

Shen Qingwu kept turning her head, pressing against him.

He trembled faintly.

A moment later, some light returned to the curtained space, moonlight falling on their two pale faces. Zhang Xingjian’s voice came out hoarse, gritted through his teeth: “Shen Qingwu, you scoundrel.”

Shen Qingwu paused.

He said: “Didn’t you promise me—that once I played the tune, you wouldn’t touch me?”

Shen Qingwu felt a flash of guilt.

But she argued, unconvincingly: “I said I wouldn’t torment you—meaning I wouldn’t channel internal energy into you, wouldn’t cause you pain. But what I’m doing now—how would this cause you any pain? You’re not in pain at all…”

She bit him: “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

A tremor down to the bone, addictive as poppy—how could Zhang Xingjian resist?

Her shameless excuse-making left Zhang Xingjian both furious and amused; he’d never expected her to be this brazen about it.

Her fingers brushed a sensitive spot, and he bent sharply, turning aside to try to escape, only to be caught and kissed again, laughing softly.

She was clumsy, inexperienced, genuinely causing him some pain. The young master in the curtained space, sparring with her for so long, truly couldn’t hold his own against her. He gritted his teeth, his breath ragged, sweat beading faintly in his hair.

Caught between fire and ice, Zhang Xingjian heard Shen Qingwu plead, with great sincerity:

“Just give me this once. Tomorrow I truly won’t lay a finger on you, won’t force anything more… I swear it.”

Breathing hard, his mind already hazy, Zhang Xingjian merely tried to hold her off: “Once, and once, and once again—how many ‘onces’ can there be? I never believe your oaths.”

Shen Qingwu: “Last time.”

She added: “Every time I swear something, I mean it.”

Suddenly, unbidden, Zhang Xingjian thought of her old oath—that she’d be struck by lightning before she’d ever marry him.

That oath flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning, striking a sudden chill through his heart, his mind going blank; the hand holding hers loosened involuntarily, and she slipped through the opening.

And in that very instant, while he was still distracted, Shen Qingwu kissed the corner of his mouth, and he closed his eyes, no longer resisting.

…Fine, then.

A man beneath another’s roof has little choice in the matter—

The next day, Shen Qingwu faced a strikingly handsome young master with a face like thunder.

He ignored her completely, the entire day.

Shen Qingwu understood well enough why, and being in an excellent mood besides, made no effort to provoke him further.

She wandered about outside all day, with nothing much to do, bought some vegetables and medicine, and returned home under the setting sun.

The moment the courtyard came into view, Shen Qingwu found herself quickening her pace without meaning to, a flicker of anticipation rising in her chest.

No one had ever waited for her before; now Zhang Xingjian was forced to wait for her every single day. He belonged entirely to her, completely to her—without her, he had no one else to even speak to. Shen Qingwu savored this feeling; for its sake, she was willing to go bumbling into the kitchen every day, cooking meals that held no interest for her, just so the young master at home wouldn’t starve.

She wondered what sort of challenge that cunning young master at home would throw at her today.

Using her lightness skill, she landed in her courtyard, and before she’d even gone to see Zhang Xingjian, she was startled to discover that the child from yesterday, named A’Wen, had appeared in her courtyard once again.

As she came in through the gate, the child had just slipped out of the main room; he’d been smiling, but the moment he saw her, his face immediately flashed with guilt.

A’Wen stammered: “Sister, I— I… my kite fell into your yard again, I came to get it.”

Shen Qingwu said nothing.

She thought: if he’d only come for the kite, why go inside the house? Zhang Xingjian must have been luring the child in somehow…

Saying nothing, she carried her vegetables and turned to head into the kitchen. The boy called A’Wen stood frozen for a long moment before it dawned on him that this always cold-faced, fierce-looking sister apparently wasn’t a ghost after all, and wasn’t going to string him up and beat him.

Just as the older brother inside had told him—that she wouldn’t hit him, not to be afraid; she just didn’t talk much, didn’t like talking, but was actually a very good sister, and A’Wen needn’t fear her.

A’Wen was still just a child, after all, without the fixed prejudices adults carried. After hesitating for a long while, he crept forward, clutching his kite, stammering out behind Shen Qingwu:

“Si—si—sister!”

The moment he finished speaking, he pressed against the wall, ready to bolt: “My sister’s holding her engagement banquet in a couple of days—we’ve invited everyone in town and the village. My sister invites you too… I— I’ve said what I needed to say!”

Shen Qingwu turned back, startled, but the child had already scrambled eagerly up over the wall and fled.

Shen Qingwu fell silent.

Coming out of the kitchen, she pushed the door open and went inside; Zhang Xingjian sat on the bed, the cloth strips binding him clearly untouched—she knew her own knots well enough to be certain.

She found it genuinely strange: didn’t Zhang Xingjian intend to escape at all? Was he really content just sitting there?

She asked him: “That child, A’Wen—inviting us out as guests?”

Zhang Xingjian said politely: “So it seems.”

Shen Qingwu sat down beside him, resting her hand casually on his knee; he glanced down at her.

Shen Qingwu was baffled.

Zhang Xingjian: “Not a finger.”

Shen Qingwu: “…”

Indignant, she moved her hand away, not touching him at all, and lifted her chin at him to show her perfect good faith.

Only then did Zhang Xingjian offer a polite smile, answering her question: “A’Wen has an older sister who’s getting engaged, in just the next few days. Hearing what A’Wen said, that family grew curious about their new neighbors. But you’re never home during the day, and I’m…”

He gestured toward his own bound state, smiling: “And I’m in this state unfit to be seen. So that family could never quite catch us together, and in the end, A’Wen became our go-between.”

Shen Qingwu thought back: “When I first rented this place, I hadn’t heard anything about their daughter getting engaged. At that time…”

She paused.

That family had accidentally seen Zhang Xingjian unconscious before, had asked after him, and she’d brushed it off with “he’s my husband.” It had only been a few days since then—and already their daughter was getting married?

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “It’s an engagement.”

Shen Qingwu asked, puzzled: “Why emphasize that? It’s not as if I don’t know what an engagement is—it’s what you and Shen Qingye had. An engagement is basically the same as marriage; barring some accident, it leads to marriage.”

Zhang Xingjian fell silent.

After a long moment, he said: “An engagement can also mean something else—when the wedding itself would be too troublesome, and neither side wishes to marry just yet, but they formalize things in advance to guard against any mishap.”

Shen Qingwu asked, curious: “What does one prepare for an engagement?”

Zhang Xingjian: “Why ask me?”

Shen Qingwu said, as though it were obvious: “Aren’t you quite experienced in this?”

Zhang Xingjian smiled faintly: “Not particularly experienced. I don’t quite follow what General Shen means.”

His smile just then held something odd about it, a certain coolness to it; even as slow as she could be, Shen Qingwu could tell he was displeased. She thought: what a temper this man had—still sulking over last night, still being sarcastic about it now.

Generously, Shen Qingwu decided not to hold it against him.

She began making preparations instead: “For the engagement banquet, shouldn’t we bring a gift? Should we buy new clothes? But I don’t have anything new…”

She turned back, shooting Zhang Xingjian a reproachful look: it was all his fault for refusing to learn needlework, refusing to help her mend her clothes.

Zhang Xingjian pretended not to notice.

His eyes flickered; seeing her genuinely looking forward to someone else’s engagement banquet, he asked: “You want to go?”

Shen Qingwu: “They invited us, didn’t they? Why wouldn’t I go?”

Zhang Xingjian: “Me too?”

She answered absently, then turned to press him: “What do we need to prepare for an engagement banquet?”

She didn’t dare say something like “you must have experience,” worried he’d play dumb again, so she rephrased: “Zhang Yuelu’s well-traveled and knowledgeable—surely you’d know.”

Zhang Xingjian glanced at her, then slowly began to explain.

Shen Qingwu adopted an attentive, obedient expression.

Privately, she congratulated herself: I’m truly clever—

An engagement among ordinary town neighbors was entirely different from an engagement between great clans like the Zhang and Shen families. The Zhang and Shen families would have selected an auspicious date for their engagement, but this neighbor’s engagement date wasn’t even a lucky day on the calendar, which left Shen Qingwu rather puzzled.

Not understanding these customs, and with Zhang Xingjian offering no explanation, she simply assumed it must be local custom.

Shen Qingwu had never been specifically invited to anything before; she took this occasion seriously, even though they were only neighbors for a short while. Whatever Zhang Xingjian’s true intentions might be, she prepared earnestly, even following his suggestion to buy a box of pastries as a gift.

Zhang Xingjian, too, finally got to step outside that courtyard.

Just before they left, Zhang Xingjian stopped her, asking: “You intend to go as guests looking like that?”

Standing there imposing, bow drawn taut, she looked less like she was headed to a social gathering and more like she meant to start a brawl.

Shen Qingwu didn’t understand.

This was her finest martial robe, the best fabric she owned. She’d worried there might be things to help with at the banquet, and had dressed simply and practically on purpose. What was wrong with that?

Zhang Xingjian said: “General Shen mustn’t frighten people—our neighbors are just ordinary folk.”

Once he could move about freely, he dragged his chained hands and feet, pulled her down to sit, and set about arranging her appearance. He helped her into a simple feminine hairstyle, his clumsy fingers tugging painfully at her scalp, but Shen Qingwu sat perfectly still, not making a sound.

Zhang Xingjian looked down at her, trying to gauge whether it hurt.

Shen Qingwu, eyes on him, said: “It looks nice.”

She explained: “I know it looks nice this way—I just can’t manage it myself.”

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes, his hand trembling faintly within his sleeve. Feigning nonchalance, he continued arranging her hair: “I’m not very good at this either—I’ve only seen how other young ladies wear their hair. But this is as far as I can manage for you; as for makeup, I’m afraid I’d ruin General Shen’s face.”

Shen Qingwu said: “Go learn, then.”

Zhang Xingjian fell silent, then laughed after a moment: “…General Shen should change into women’s clothing first.”

He stepped back, little by little, standing by the doorframe, watching her calmly.

Sunlight streamed in from outside, falling fully upon her—her arched brows, her elegant, upright nose, her firmly pressed lips—all of it entirely within Zhang Xingjian’s view.

The General Shen who finally walked out the door had transformed into an elegant, radiant Shen Qingwu.

Her clothing remained practical above all, though sleeves and collar were now trimmed with lovely magnolia blossoms—the one item with any hint of femininity that Zhang Xingjian had managed to pick out from her pile of martial robes.

She wore no brow paint, no powder, since Zhang Xingjian had said that if she didn’t know how, it was better to keep things plain.

Having been groomed and dressed, Shen Qingwu felt she looked somewhat prettier than usual. She decided she wanted a flower tucked into her hair as well, and went specifically out to wander about looking for one, leaving Zhang Xingjian struggling to hold back a laugh.

In the end, with Zhang Xingjian’s help, Shen Qingwu contentedly tucked an orange chrysanthemum into her hair.

She slung her bow over her shoulder and stood up.

Zhang Xingjian laughed: “Hm?”

Following his gaze, Shen Qingwu looked down at the fine bow on her back. She hated to part with it, but, genuinely worried about frightening people, she reluctantly set aside her beloved bow and picked up the wooden box of pastries instead before heading out.

Shen Qingwu asked Zhang Xingjian: “Pastries alone are really enough? You’re not tricking me, hoping to make a fool of me, are you?”

Zhang Xingjian turned his head, his gaze falling on her, on the flower tucked in her hair.

He couldn’t help but recall, from many years ago, sixteen-year-old Shen Qingwu, flowers in her hair, sneaking into a flower-viewing banquet, leaving the men and women there furious but unable to say so openly. That sixteen-year-old Shen Qingwu, having dressed herself up so garishly, had ended up with a rather unfortunate result…

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes, something tightening briefly in his chest.

His wrist, through the shackle, was cupped in Shen Qingwu’s hand as she channeled internal energy into him.

Shen Qingwu asked: “Does your hand still hurt much?”

Zhang Xingjian came back to himself, looking at the flower in her hair, and said slowly: “It’s alright.”

Shen Qingwu said: “If you weren’t so cunning, I’d take the shackles off you. You suffer through this every day—why keep defying me on purpose?”

Zhang Xingjian said nothing.

He needed this pain, to remind himself not to lose himself in pleasure, not to sink into this illusion. He was playing a part alongside her—once the act was over, once she left, what then?

He watched everything unfold with perfect clarity, calmly searching for his own way out even now.

Zhang Xingjian looked again at the flower trembling and swaying in her hair in the wind.

His gaze kept drifting to her hair, and even as slow as she was, Shen Qingwu could tell what he was looking at: “Doesn’t it look good? Is wearing a flower strange?”

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “If General Shen likes it, why should anyone else’s opinion matter?”

Shen Qingwu nodded: “That’s reasonable enough. But… does it look good?”

Zhang Xingjian turned his face away, pointing: “General Shen, that’s the household there—let’s go over.”

Shen Qingwu followed him, asking flatly: “Does it look good?”

She grabbed his hand, making it clear she wouldn’t let go until he answered.

The two of them tugged back and forth in front of the bustling entrance, drawing more than a few curious glances—partly at this refined, elegant young master, so different from ordinary folk, and partly at this free show of a man and woman carrying on.

Zhang Xingjian’s face flushed, little by little.

He turned his face away and said quietly: “…Good…”

“Sister!” A child’s bright voice pulled Shen Qingwu’s attention away.

Seeing the boy actually greeting her, Shen Qingwu immediately began minding her appearance. Unable to smile, she hastily released her tight grip on Zhang Xingjian’s hand and walked toward the boy’s family with careful, proper steps.

Behind her, Zhang Xingjian quietly finished his sentence: “…It looks good.”

A yellow leaf drifted down, landing on him.

Shen Qingwu suddenly turned back, looking at him.

Zhang Xingjian looked away, composing himself for a moment before greeting the family with his usual air of detached courtesy, helping Shen Qingwu exchange pleasantries. Since she wasn’t one for conversation, he had to take on that social role.

Listening to him speak in his unhurried way, leaving the family looking faintly dazed, Shen Qingwu couldn’t help smiling—though she barely understood half his flowery phrasing, she nodded along repeatedly, showing her agreement with whatever he’d said.

The family said: “So you two are…”

Shen Qingwu cut in: “Definitely married!”

Zhang Xingjian obligingly let her loop her arm through his.

A’Wen bounced excitedly beside them, adding his own explanation: “Mom, Dad, sister, they really are married! When I went next door to play, I saw big brother tied to the bed, and big brother said it was a bedroom game, right?!”

Shen Qingwu turned to look at Zhang Xingjian: “…”

The smile in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes went rigid: “…”

The family: “…”

A long silence, an eerily quiet stillness. An autumn leaf fell, frost spreading through the air, heaven and earth gone pale.