Liu Lanzhi sat on the bench. The morning light was thin, the mist still hanging over the garden in heavy, grey curtains that turned the crumbling walls into shadows and blurred the edges of the hedges. He came through the hedge at the usual hour, his steps quick, his face bright. He was carrying something in his hands—cupped carefully, the way children carried things that might break .
"Jiejie," he said, climbing onto the bench beside her. "Look."
He opened his hands. Inside was a small white flower, its petals thin, its stem still damp with dew. He had found it somewhere in the garden. He had picked it for her. Liu Lanzhi looked at the flower. A memory of another flower surfaced—wilted and imperfect, wrapped in silk in the dark of her drawer where she kept the things that survived the fall. She had kept that one, too.
She took the flower from his hands. The petals were cool against her fingers, the stem fragile, the roots still clinging to a scrap of dark soil. He had pulled it from the ground carefully. He had tried to keep it whole .
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded, satisfied. He folded his hands in his lap and looked out at the garden, the way he always did, as if there were nothing more to say. She held the flower and looked at him. His profile was small, the bruise on his cheek faded to yellow now, almost gone. He sat without moving. He did not speak. He did not ask for anything. He was four years old. He waited with the stillness of a man.
She set the flower beside her on the bench. The morning light was thin, the scent of damp earth rising as the air began to warm.
"Zichen," she said.
He looked at her. The name was a heavy thing between them. To speak it was to claim him. To make him real in a way he had not been before. To make him hers.
He waited.
She reached out and took his hand. His fingers were small, the nails bitten short, the skin cool against hers. He did not pull away.
"I need to tell you something," she said. Her voice was steady, but the cold pressure stirred beneath her awareness—a thin, quiet movement that settled before she could breathe. "The gift. The one that came to your quarters. It was not a mistake. It was meant for you. It was meant to hurt you."
He did not move. His hand was still in hers. He was quiet for a long time. Liu Lanzhi watched his face. It was clear. His eyes did not drop. He did not make himself small. He looked at her, and his gaze was steady.
"You stopped it," he said.
"Yes."
He nodded. He looked at the garden, at the hedge, at the sky where the clouds were thin and high. He thought about it for a moment, slowly, carefully.
"Who sent it?"
"I do not know. Not yet."
He seemed to accept this. He was four years old, and he had learned that there were things adults did not know, things they were still trying to understand. He looked at her, his face calm. "You will find out."
He said it the way he said you will come back. As if it were a fact. As certain as the sun rising. She looked at him. He was small. The memory of the lake surfaced—cold, dark water closing over a small face. He looked at her now, his eyes bright, as if he expected her to be there.
Liu Lanzhi knelt in front of him. The stones were cold beneath her knees, the dirt damp against her silk robes. He looked at her, his eyes wide. She had never been lower than him. She took both his hands in hers. His wrists were thin. She held them as if they were precious.
"I promise. No matter what happens, I will protect you. I will always come for you. I will not let them hurt you."
He did not understand the weight of the words. But his eyes brightened. His hands tightened around hers. He sat up straighter.
"You will always come back," he said.
"Yes. I will always come back."
He let go of her hands, slowly, and folded his own in his lap. She rose from the stones and sat beside him. He did not lean against her, but his hand found hers after a moment, and their fingers intertwined. They sat together in the silence.
In the Crown Prince's residence, the afternoon light was long and sharp across the desk. A report arrived with the tea.
The gift sent to the Eleventh Prince has been disposed of. The Northern princess ordered it removed before it could reach him. She has not filed a complaint. She has continued her daily visits to the garden without interruption.
Yun Qingyu read it twice. He set the paper down and looked at the window. She had not come to him. She had not asked for his protection or his intervention. She had handled the matter herself, quietly. The gift was gone. The boy was safe.
He picked up the report again. She has continued her daily visits. She had not hidden. She had not changed her routine. She had shown no fear.
Yun Qingyu sat with the report. He did not call for his steward. He looked at the paper, then at the empty garden beyond his window where he had never walked. He would see what she did next .
The sun was low when Zichen woke. He opened his eyes slowly, his head still against her arm. He did not move immediately. He lay there, his hand in hers, his breathing slow.
"Jiejie," he said, his voice thick with sleep. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
Liu Lanzhi looked at him. His face was soft. The tension had left his small shoulders. He looked at the garden as if he belonged to the earth and the light.
"Yes. I will be here tomorrow."
He sat up and stretched his arms above his head. He looked at her, his face unguarded.
"I will see you tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow."
He walked toward the hedge, his steps quick, his shoulders straight. He did not look back. She watched him disappear through the gap in the branches. She watched the leaves settle. The garden fell still.
Liu Lanzhi sat on the bench for a long time after he was gone. The light was fading, the shadows lengthening, the air cooling. Somewhere in the palace, lamps were being lit.
The flower lay on the bench beside her. Its petals were already curling. Its stem was beginning to wilt. She picked it up and tucked it into her sleeve, beside her heart, where she kept the things she could not bear to lose.