The days blurred softly.
Not in the way they used to, when Shen Xifan was on set for sixteen hours, moving between artificial lights and forced emotions. This was different. In Water Moon Town, time passed with quiet stubbornness. The kind that didn't ask you to keep up. The kind that let you rest, even if you didn't know how.
She fell into rhythm.
Morning tea. A walk to the market. Sketches. Silence. A soft knock. A book left on her doorstep. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud. But every gesture felt like another thread being quietly tied between her life and his.
She hadn't seen him yet. Not clearly.
Once, through the window, she'd caught a glimpse of a figure bent over his table, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely back. Just a silhouette framed in pale morning light. He moved slowly, his hands steady, body leaning into the stone like it was something he trusted.
She hadn't looked away for a long time.
And once. Just once, she thought he might have seen her too.
She'd opened her door to sweep the courtyard, and there, standing at his gate, was a man in gray linen and black slip-ons. Holding a paper parcel.
They locked eyes for less than a second.
He bowed slightly.
Not out of politeness.
Out of recognition.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving the parcel behind.
She stood frozen for a moment.
Then moved to pick it up.
Inside was a folded piece of cloth, embroidered with her initials.
Not "Shen Xifan."
L.M.
Lin Mei.
The name she'd registered the house under.
The name no one should've known.
She didn't panic. She didn't run.
Instead, she walked back inside and sat down at the table.
Her tea had gone cold.
She stared at the embroidery for a long time, tracing the thread with her fingertips. It wasn't perfect. The stitching was slightly uneven at the curves, as if it had been done by someone who was careful, not practiced.
He knew.
He must've recognized her from the beginning. And still, he'd said nothing.
Not a word. Not a hint. Not a question.
Only kindness.
Only silence.
Later that day, she visited the town bookstore, a dusty little shop that sold more tea than actual books. The owner was a white-haired man with a voice like gravel and a tendency to talk to hum when no one was talking. She liked him immediately.
He didn't recognize her either.
She spent nearly an hour flipping through hand-bound poetry collections, the corners browned by sun and fingers. In the back, she found a volume on traditional Chinese seal carving — detailed, annotated, well-thumbed.
She hesitated.
Then bought it.
That night, the silence was heavier than usual.
She sat in her loft with the lamp off, the window open. Rain tapped gently on the tiles. Somewhere in the distance, a cat meowed like it was bored, not lost.
And then, music.
Again.
The guqin.
Tentative at first. Then sure.
She stood and moved closer to the window.
It wasn't a song she knew.
But it felt like something someone played for themselves when they thought no one was listening.
She didn't lean out. Didn't peek.
She just closed her eyes and let it wash over her.
The announcement came as a line of red flyers tacked haphazardly to shop windows.
Mid-Autumn Gathering: Lantern Night at the Old Pavilion, this Saturday at dusk. Mooncakes, guqin performance, paper offerings. All are welcome.
Shen Xifan paused when she saw one outside the noodle shop. The ink was slightly smudged, like the printer hadn't dried properly, but the image was charming, a full moon sketched over swaying willow trees and glowing lanterns. She traced it with her eyes, then moved on without taking a photo.
Back in her courtyard, she sat under the bare plum tree and thought about the word "gathering." She hadn't gathered with anyone in a long time. Not without pressure. Not without being observed.
She didn't decide to go. Not exactly.
But when Saturday came, and the town began to glow, she found herself reaching for a simple linen blouse and loose cotton trousers, clothes that wouldn't draw attention. She tied her hair in a low knot, left her phone behind, and stepped out just as the sky began to fade from gold to gray.
The streets were lined with red and orange lanterns, strung across alleyways like floating stars. Children ran past her with paper rabbits bouncing in their hands. A vendor near the canal handed out sweet rice dumplings on sticks.
No one looked twice at her.
She breathed easier with each step.
The Old Pavilion sat near the river's bend, a wide wooden structure with a sloped tiled roof, half hidden beneath willow branches that dipped low over the water. Lanterns bobbed gently in the canal below, their candlelight flickering in watery rhythm.
She stood near the edge of the crowd, content to watch.
The guqin performance began.
A young woman played. The notes were graceful, rehearsed. Pleasant, but not intimate.
And then the second performer was introduced.
She didn't catch his name.
She didn't have to.
The moment he sat down. Quiet, composed, with his back straight and head bowed, she knew.
Xu Songzhuo.
His presence was unmistakable now. Not because of fame. But because of the way the world hushed around him.
He didn't tune the strings.
He simply touched them, once, like greeting an old friend.
And then he played.
It wasn't flashy. Wasn't impressive in the way professionals sought applause.
But it was… listening to music.
The kind that reached into the silence and pulled something out of it.
Xifan stood motionless.
Not because she didn't want to move.
But because something in her, deep and long-hidden, wanted to be seen just like that.
Not through a lens.
Not through a script.
Just…this way.
After the performance, the crowd drifted into small groups. Paper boats were lit and pushed into the water. Laughter. Warmth.
She walked quietly along the river's edge, stopping at a small stall that offered plain lanterns to write wishes on.
She picked one without thinking.
A simple one, pale yellow.
She didn't write anything.
But she carried it with her toward the trees, where the light was thinner.
That's when she saw him again.
Xu Songzhuo stood by the far edge of the pavilion, lantern in hand. Alone. Watching the river like it might give him an answer.
She didn't approach.
But she didn't turn away either.
Then, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
This time, longer.
This time, fully.
He didn't smile.
Neither did she.
But something passed between them, a recognition not of who, but of how they had been. Broken quietly. Living softly. Waiting.
He didn't move.
But slowly, he lifted the lantern in his hands and let it go.
It rose between them, drifting upward with almost no wind.
She followed suit.
Her lantern rose seconds later, chasing his through the dusk.
Two lights in the gray.
One slightly behind the other.
And for a while, that was enough.
The glow of the lanterns stayed in Shen Xifan's eyes long after she returned home.
She didn't turn on the lights. The moon was enough.
It spilled in through the lattice window and pooled across the wooden floor, pale and uneven. The kind of light that didn't reveal everything, just enough to feel like something was there, watching with breath held.
She placed the folded blouse into her basket, untied her hair, and sat on the floor near the door.
Still no sound from the other side of the wall.
But it didn't feel like absence anymore.
It felt like understanding.
She reached for her sketchbook.
It still lay on the low table, slightly curved where she had pressed the spine too hard. She flipped past her usual pages — plants, rooftops, quiet canals and stopped at one she hadn't meant to draw but hadn't been able to stop drawing.
Him.
Not his full face. Not yet. Just parts.
The curve of a shoulder bent over a carving table. A hand holding a chisel. A silhouette framed in light.
She had drawn them over and over, without thinking. And now, as she looked, her chest tightened.
He had seen her.
Not just at the pavilion.
Not just today.
But from the beginning.
And maybe, just maybe… he had known her the way no one else had ever tried to.
The knock came at midnight.
Soft.
Just once.
She paused.
Then rose slowly and opened the front door.
Nothing in sight.
Only a small cloth-covered object on the ground, wrapped in indigo linen, bound with a single strip of rice twine.
She knelt and picked it up.
Carved into the surface, beneath the cloth:
Her sketch.
Not copied. Transformed.
He had taken her drawing, the hand, the chisel, the lean of the shoulder and carved it into stone. In jade, no less. Light green and translucent.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was hers.
And more importantly — it was his version of her version of him.
A loop only the two of them could complete.
Her fingers trembled.
She pressed the jade against her palm and closed the door gently behind her.
Then, with the house still and only the sound of her own breath to keep her company, she wrote him back.
Not with words.
With a drawing.
One she had never let herself make before.
His face.
She didn't stylize it. Didn't idealize. She drew as she saw with memory, with ache, with wonder.
Then, beneath the chin, in small, barely-there strokes, she wrote:
"First."
Nothing more.
She left it on the wall before dawn, weighted with the same river stone he had used once.
She didn't stay to see if he would take it.
She didn't need to.
Because for the first time, she knew.
This wasn't just a beginning.
It was the only one either of them had ever known.