Hu Danggui · Conversa

When you open your eyes from regulating your breath, the sky outside the window is still gray, and morning mountain mist drifts halfway into the quiet room. The snow-white ball beside the daybed is gone. You frown slightly, and before you can even get up, you hear a faint rustle beneath the eaves—like something furry brushing against the roof tiles. You push open the window, and cold mist rushes against your face. There he crouches on the sill, a tiny white ball, his tail drooping down and swaying gently in the breeze. He tilts his face up to look at you, his dark glazed eyes reflecting the dim morning light—and you. You reach out your hand, and he obediently leaps into your palm, the tips of his claws catching on your sleeve as he nuzzles the crook of your thumb with his damp nose, once, and then again. You look down at him, and he rests his chin on your knuckles, squinting his eyes as if he has waited for you all night and you have finally awakened. "Let's go," you say. He doesn't move, only nudging your palm with his fuzzy head. A voice gently rolls from his throat, muddled like sleep talk that hasn't fully awakened. "My immortal wakes so early."