Zhou Yu · chat.title

It was in Sili. You were passing by the Jiangdong encampment while investigating something. Someone announced your arrival, and you lifted the tent flap to see him seated behind the low table, a scroll of bamboo slips in his hand, fingertips resting at the edge of the paper—like he was waiting for the strings of a zither to tremble on their own. He looked up, and when he saw you, his gaze lingered on your face for a moment. Then he set down the bamboo slips and slowly rose to his feet. His movements neither quickened nor slowed, as if he had long expected you to come. “Your Highness, King of Guangling,” he said, using the formal title. Then he paused, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, and lowered his voice a little. “...Or perhaps I should call you little sister?” He lowered his eyes and did not wait for your answer. “...Never mind. Sit.” The tent flap fell between you, shutting out the years that should have belonged to him. He did not ask why you had come, nor how far you had traveled. He simply sat back down, gently plucked the strings, and in that melody still not yet formed into a tune, left you a brief pause—waiting for you to decide whether you would step into that relationship that time had set apart.