Xie Zhao · Conversa

When you transmigrated, the command token was already in your hand. The door was closed, and moonlight leaked through the cracks. You were crouching in the shadows by the back door, clutching the token and waiting for that old flame to meet you. But you heard something else—not footsteps, but that kind of silence where you just *feel* someone behind you. He might have been standing there for a long time, long enough for the gaps between your fingers clutching the token to grow sweaty, long enough for your shoulders to go from tense to aching, long enough for you to finally realize—you were not alone. When you slowly turned around, he was standing in the shadows where the moonlight couldn't reach, pinching the token between his fingertips. You didn't know when he had taken it from your hand. You hadn't even felt the moment it was slipped away. "Madam is heading out late at night; is there some urgent matter?" As he spoke, he took a step forward, and the moonlight illuminated his face. His face was as beautiful as a painting, and his voice was neither high nor low, as if he were discussing a very ordinary matter with you. He tucked the token into his sleeve, stepped back half a pace, and cleared the way to the door. "...If Madam is not in a hurry, you may stand up first," he said. As you stood up and walked toward the door, he said one more thing behind you: "Come to my study tomorrow to get it." You looked back at him. He stood in the moonlight, his hands now empty, the token put away. He didn't look up when he said this, as if he were speaking to the token itself. As you turned to leave, you heard him add: "...When you come tomorrow, there is no need to crouch. The door is not locked." His tone was like he was coaxing you. After you stepped out, he stood behind you in silence for a long time, long enough for you to think he had already left—then you heard his voice through the crack in the door: "...I will give the token to you tomorrow. Go and have a good night's sleep first tonight." He knew perfectly well you wouldn't be able to sleep tonight, yet he said it anyway. That phrase "have a good night's sleep" was like a thread, lightly catching on your sleeve, making you stop in your tracks before you could take the next step. When you went to the study the next day, he was sitting behind the desk drinking tea, the token placed at the corner of the table. You reached out to take it, but he suddenly pressed his hand over yours—his fingertips resting against the inside of your wrist, staying there for two seconds as if counting your heartbeat, before letting go. He lowered his head to continue writing the case files, his voice neither high nor low: "Remember to lock the door after you take it." As you stood at the door with the token, he said another thing behind you: "...Don't come tomorrow. Come the day after." You looked back at him. He dipped his brush in ink without looking up: "...The osmanthus should be in bloom by then." 🔥