Fengqi was alive again.
By morning, the river no longer shimmered gold — only clear water, rippling softly beneath the sunlight. The villagers worked to clean the shrine and repair their homes. Children laughed in the streets for the first time in months.
Everywhere they went, people bowed low to Mei Lian and Zhen Yu. Some offered food, others whispered blessings. But she — as always — stayed quiet, her crimson eyes soft beneath the light.
That evening, the villagers insisted on a celebration.
Bonfires burned bright in the square. Men brought wine, women baked bread, and music — hesitant at first — began to rise in the cold air.
Mei Lian watched from a distance, seated beneath the eaves of an old house. She looked at peace, though she never joined the laughter.
Zhen Yu approached her with two cups of rice wine.
"You should try it," he said, smiling faintly. "The villagers swear it chases away spirits."
She shook her head. Then, after a pause, she signed — I am one.
He laughed quietly. "Then maybe you're the one chasing them away."
Her lips twitched, the ghost of a smile.
Across the square, women were braiding each other's hair, weaving ribbons and flowers through dark tresses. Mei Lian's gaze lingered there — the simple act, the closeness, the color. One woman wore osmanthus in her braid, another tied purple silk into hers.
Zhen Yu noticed her staring.
"Why don't you tie your hair like that?" he asked gently.
She hesitated, her fingers moving slowly. I don't know how to.
He set his cup down. "Then let me."
For a long moment, she didn't move — unsure, untrusting. Then, wordlessly, she turned around.
Her hair slipped forward like a river of black silk, smooth and weightless. Zhen Yu's fingers brushed it lightly, separating the strands.
He worked carefully — awkward at first, then steadier — twisting her hair into a neat braid. The lamplight caught the purple hue of the ribbon he'd taken from one of the vendors earlier that day. He tied it at the end, then added two small floral pins — violet, carved from stone.
When she turned back, her crimson eyes reflected the faint light of the fire.
Zhen Yu blinked, caught off guard.
He'd seen her as a witch, a warrior, a weapon of silence. But now — under the glow of lanterns, her hair woven with color, her robe deep violet instead of black — she looked like something else entirely.
Human.
Beautiful.
She raised her hands to touch the braid, then looked at him questioningly. It's… fine?
He smiled, almost shy. "It's perfect."
The fire crackled, painting their faces gold and amber. Around them, laughter echoed, music carried on the wind.
Near the bonfire, Zhen Yu lifted his gaze to the sky. "If it were spring," he murmured, "we'd have the peach blossoms falling like snow. I miss it."
Mei Lian looked at him, then raised her hand gently. She made a small gesture — and the air shimmered.
A soft breeze stirred, carrying with it a sudden shower of petals, pale and fragrant, drifting around them like spring reborn.
Zhen Yu stared, astonished. "You can do this kind of magic?"
She signed, her eyes gleaming with quiet mischief. Of course. I'm a witch.
He laughed, and so did she — a soundless laugh that reached her eyes.
Around them, people danced and celebrated beneath the falling petals.
It was a night of happiness — rare, fragile, and real.
For that one night, there were no monsters, no curses, no weight of destiny — only the sound of joy, and two souls learning, slowly, what it meant to be alive.