「The 25th of the First Month.」
Qingzhu Hall was the same as always; nothing had changed.
Lu Mingyuan, brush in hand, applied the final stroke, at last finishing the rows of Papermen before him.
With practice, it had become second nature, and he no longer wasted as much paper as he did at the start.
After finishing, he subconsciously glanced toward the withered tree behind him. It was as if a beautiful figure was there—clad in a green Daoist robe, her snowy hair like a waterfall—bracing herself on a branch with both hands, her feet dangling and swinging as she gazed up at the sky.
But when he focused his gaze, the treetop was empty.
Miss Yun was gone.
She had left the morning before last while he was still asleep. There was no farewell, for she was not one for goodbyes.
Perhaps, as Miss Yun had said, their connection had never been that deep. They were merely passing strangers, so there was nothing to be sad about.
