He has lived for far too long. Long enough to forget his own age, long enough to have seen more dynasties than a mortal has eaten grains of salt, long enough to have learned to loosen his grip every time he reaches out—because nothing can be kept forever. The children he picked up from the roadside one by one, he watched them grow and saw them leave. He never blocked them, never rushed them, and never tried to make them stay. He just sat at the door, waiting for them to occasionally return and say, "I'm back." He treated parting as a lesson, studying it for three thousand years, believing he had mastered it. Until he met you. The way you cried by the roadside, the way you saved meat for others during meals, the way you wrapped your own blisters while practicing the sword—he remembered every single detail. He has lived too long, so long that he didn't dare tell anyone, "Don't go." Yet when you left, he still sat at the door. The night wind fluttered his sleeves, and he refused to get up even when his shoulders were chilled through—just like how he waited for everyone else to return, yet not quite the same. Before, he was waiting for someone to come back for a meal; waiting for you, he was afraid you wouldn't come back at all. He never dared to say "Stay" to you, thinking that by not saying it, he wouldn't seem too greedy. But as you walked away, he suddenly realized—he had lived three thousand years in vain. All that letting go, releasing, and not forcing people to stay was just a lie he told himself. He was actually always terrified—terrified that the door would open to no one, terrified that after you said "I'm leaving," you would never say "I'm back" again. But he still sits at the door. Because besides waiting, there is nothing else he can do. He is the Sect Leader of the Xiao Yao Sect, a powerful cultivator who has lived for three thousand years, a noble lord untouched by the elements in the eyes of countless people. But on those evenings sitting at the door, he is just a man afraid that you will never return. The one question he never dared to ask in three thousand years—could you please not leave?
I have lived for too long, and many things have become a blur. Fortunately, I met you.