Rain became the rhythm of the night. Ren sat there on the cold floor until exhaustion folded him into itself; the open book lay face-down beside him, its pages breathing with every shift of the wind. When he finally stood, the house felt different... less haunted, more heavy with silence, as if the air were waiting for him to surrender to sleep.
He didn't remember crawling back to bed, only the instant when his cheek met the pillow and the world tilted away. The weight of everything... fear, hunger, confusion...poured out of him, and darkness gathered like a blanket.
He slept.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, there were no nightmares. Only a drifting calm, as though someone stood guard at the edge of his dreams.
When Ren opened his eyes again, sunlight had already begun to thin across the curtains. The clock on the wall blinked: 2:17 p.m.
Eighteen hours.
He blinked twice, confused that time could disappear so quietly.
His body felt light but empty, hollow with hunger. The room smelled faintly of rain and something savory... steam, soy, sesame. His stomach answered with an audible growl that almost made him laugh. It felt absurd, being alive enough to be hungry again.
Barefoot, he padded down the stairs. The wooden steps sighed beneath him.
When he reached the dining hall, he stopped dead.
The table stretched the length of the room, and every inch of it gleamed with food.
Not just food... his food. The dishes of home, of longing, of things he'd seen through restaurant windows but never tasted.
A whole plate of xiao long bao, steam curling like breath in winter. A bowl of mapo tofu glistening red and gold, flecked with peppercorns. Sweet tanghulu skewers shining like jewels, their sugar shells catching the light. Even zongzi, wrapped in neat little bundles, the smell of sticky rice and lotus leaf pulling him backward to some childhood festival he could barely remember.
And beside them... delicate dishes he had only ever scrolled past on his phone: Peking duck, soup dumplings, osmanthus jelly trembling in glass bowls.
The sight hit him so hard he had to grip the chair back to stay upright. He hadn't eaten like this since... well, never.
"Good morning."
The voice came from the kitchen doorway.
Ren turned sharply.
Lián Zhen stood there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faint gleam of armor hidden beneath a dark shirt. He was holding a porcelain cup, steam rising from it in gentle spirals. The smell of roasted coffee filled the space, grounding it in something astonishingly ordinary.
For a moment, Ren couldn't find his voice. "You-did you make all this?"
Lián Zhen's mouth tilted, the faintest ghost of amusement. "Some of it. The house remembers the rest."
Ren frowned. "The… house?"
"It knows what you need." He poured another cup, slow, precise. "And sometimes what you want."
Ren hesitated, then let out a small laugh... half disbelief, half nervous energy. "Then it must know me too well."
He walked toward the table, still wary, still not sure if he was dreaming. His hand hovered above a dumpling. "Can I…?"
"Eat," Lián Zhen said simply.
The first bite nearly undid him. The broth burst across his tongue... hot, rich, perfectly seasoned. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes without warning. He didn't even realize he was shaking until Lián Zhen's shadow moved closer.
"You were starving," Lián Zhen murmured.
Ren swallowed, embarrassed by the sound his stomach made in answer. "I didn't mean to sleep that long."
"You needed it." A pause. "You look less haunted when you sleep."
Ren shot him a quick, uncertain glance. "You were watching me?"
Lián Zhen looked away toward the window. "Only to make sure the house didn't harm you."
The phrasing was strange, but the tone was so quiet, so earnest, that Ren couldn't find the strength to argue. He picked at another dumpling. "So you cook, wear armor, and guard haunted houses. Quite the résumé."
That earned the faintest chuckle. "I had centuries to learn."
Ren froze mid-bite. "Centuries?"
Lián Zhen sipped his coffee, unbothered. "Does it matter?"
Ren wanted to say yes, but the warmth spreading through his chest made it impossible. He watched the older man move about the kitchen... each motion deliberate, careful. He poured him tea, set it beside the plate with the quiet grace of habit. It felt too domestic, too intimate for two people who'd met through fear.
"Why do you do this?" Ren asked suddenly. "Feed me, protect me… talk like we know each other?"
Lián Zhen's eyes lifted to him. "Because we do."
Ren blinked, speechless.
"You just don't remember the whole of it yet," the man added softly.
Ren stared at the steam rising from his tea. "And when I do?"
Lián Zhen leaned against the counter. "Then you'll understand why the mark burns."
The mention of the mark made Ren instinctively touch the nape of his neck. It felt warm now, not painful... almost like the lingering heat of a touch.
He looked back at Lián Zhen. "You have the same mark. What are you trying to tell me?"
The older man studied him for a long moment. Then, instead of answering, he stepped closer, close enough that Ren could see the faint scar cutting across his jaw, the tiny imperfections that made him real.
"Some stories," he said quietly, "aren't told in words."
Their eyes met. The space between them seemed to hum again, the same faint vibration that had filled the room the night before. Ren's heartbeat stumbled. For a moment, the world narrowed to the sound of rain easing outside and the soft clink of ceramic as Lián Zhen set down his cup.
Ren's voice broke the silence first. "You should eat too."
Lián Zhen's gaze softened. "I don't need to."
"Everyone needs to," Ren murmured.
For a second, he thought he saw something flicker in those dark eyes—a kind of longing, quiet and unreadable.
Then the tension broke. Ren looked down at his plate and laughed weakly. "If this is a dream, don't wake me up."
Lián Zhen's reply was almost a whisper. "I wouldn't dare."
They ate in silence for a while after that. The rain slowed, leaving only the soft hiss of water against stone. The house seemed to breathe with them, peaceful at last.
When Ren finally set his chopsticks down, his stomach full for the first time in years, he leaned back in the chair, half-smiling, half-dazed. "You know," he said quietly, "this feels like something out of a different life."
Lián Zhen's voice answered from across the table. "Maybe it is."
Ren glanced up, but the chair opposite him was empty. Only the faint scent of coffee lingered, and the cup he'd been holding still steamed.
END OF THE CHAPTER.