Time did not pass the same for everyone.
For some, the days slipped by unnoticed, carried forward by preparations and obligation. For others, each morning lingered, each evening stretching longer than it should have—time weighed down by thought rather than work.
For Rai, time moved slowly.
Not because there was nothing to do, but because each day carried a quiet awareness of what lay ahead.
The household had grown busier, yet her own rhythm had changed.
Servants came and went more frequently, their footsteps overlapping in the corridors.
Fabrics were brought in and taken away, bundles appearing one morning only to be replaced by others the next.
Conversations lowered whenever she entered a room—not out of secrecy, but consideration.
The house felt the same, yet no longer entirely hers.
She often found herself standing by the window.
At first, it was brief—just a glance between tasks, a moment stolen while passing from one room to another.
But as days passed, those moments lengthened.
She would rest her hands against the wooden frame, fingers cool against the polished surface, gaze lifting toward the open sky, her eyes following clouds without truly seeing them.
Sometimes, she stood there so long that the light shifted before she noticed.
The sun crept higher, shadows slid across the courtyard stones, and still she remained, unaware of time's quiet movement.
It was not that she resented what was to come.
Nor did she fear it.
Yet the thought of leaving—of stepping beyond these walls where every corner held memory—settled uneasily in her chest. This house had been her world since childhood.
Its courtyards echoed with her laughter, its halls had witnessed her growth, its doors had always opened to her without question. Soon, she would walk out as a daughter and return—if at all—as a guest.
The realization did not hurt sharply.
It pressed instead, gently but persistently.
She moved through her days more slowly now.
A task begun would pause midway, her hands stilling as her thoughts drifted. A book would remain open without a page turned, its words blurring as her gaze lost focus.
Her fingers would linger on familiar objects—a table edge worn smooth by time, a pillar she had once hidden behind as a child, a doorframe etched faintly with marks only she remembered.
She did not sigh often.
But when she did, it was quiet—so quiet that even she sometimes failed to notice it herself.
But Parents are always the one who notices even when you don't.
Her father noticed.
Zhou Ming had always been observant, his attention trained by years of responsibility, but now he found himself watching his daughter more closely.
He spent more time at home than before, arranging his schedule so that his steps unconsciously guided him toward the inner courtyard where Rai often was.
Sometimes, he would say nothing at all—simply sit nearby, pretending to read or review documents while glancing up now and then, as though confirming that she was still there.
Other times, he would ask small, ordinary questions: whether she had eaten well, whether the weather felt colder than usual, whether she was tired.
Questions without urgency.
Questions meant to keep things as they were.
Her mother, however, spoke freely.
They talked often during this time—more than they had in years. About things important and trivial alike. About household matters, about clothing, about traditions she would need to remember after marriage, and habits she should carry with her.
Sometimes, the conversation drifted to Rai's childhood—stories retold so many times that both knew them by heart.
Sometimes, it fell silent without warning.
On those occasions, her mother would reach out and smooth Rai's hair, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, as if memorizing the weight and warmth of her presence, the feel of her before it became something remembered rather than daily.
Rai did not pull away.
She listened. She nodded. She smiled when expected.
Yet when she was alone again, she returned to the window.
The sky was wide.
Unchanging.
And for reasons she could not fully explain, she found herself looking at it as though seeking an answer—or perhaps preparing herself to leave it behind.
Wedding Preparations Had Also Begin Around Rai
Wedding preparations gradually wove themselves into Rai's days, threading through her quiet moments until they became unavoidable.
She spent much of her time among the women of the household—her mother, aunts, and elder sisters—gathered in sunlit rooms where bolts of fabric were laid out and examined with careful hands. Silk and satin were unrolled across low tables, their colors catching the light as patterns were compared, weighed, and set aside.
The air often smelled faintly of fresh cloth and incense.
Rai sat among them, listening more than she spoke.
Fingers brushed over cloth, testing its softness, its weight, the way it would fall when worn.
Designs were debated—whether embroidery should be bold or restrained, whether patterns should flow freely or remain simple and elegant.
Sometimes a piece was held up against her, and the room would fall briefly silent as they imagined her wearing it.
Then the chatter would return.
Laughter rose easily in those moments, filling the space and warming it. Aunties teased her for her quietness, for the faint flush that crept into her cheeks when certain designs were suggested.
Someone would remark that a bride should look radiant, another that she already did. Her mother would smile and shake her head, pretending to scold them while clearly enjoying the warmth of it all.
Rai laughed with them.
Softly, a little delayed, but sincerely.
In those moments, the weight in her chest eased. The room felt warm, familiar—filled with voices she had known all her life. It almost felt as though nothing was changing at all.
Almost.
Yet even as she smiled, her hands would occasionally still on the fabric before her. Her gaze would drift, just for a moment, toward the open window nearby, where sunlight filtered in and the sky remained unchanged.
Then someone would call her name, and she would turn back, joining the conversation once more.
The laughter continued.
But beneath it, time moved on—quiet, steady, and impossible to stop.
On a specific day
"Mother," Rai said softly, her fingers resting on yet another folded length of cloth, "do we really need to look through this many?"
Her voice held no complaint—only genuine curiosity.
Her mother didn't even pause in her inspection. "Of course we do."
She lifted the fabric, holding it toward the light, examining how it caught and reflected it. "This is your wedding. It won't come a second time. A moment like this happens only once in a lifetime—how could we be careless over something so little?"
A few of the women laughed, nodding in agreement.
"That's right," one of her aunts chimed in. "If anything, you should be the one paying the closest attention. You'll be the star of the day."
Another added with a smile, "We've watched you grow up before our eyes. How could we not be excited now?"
Rai lowered her gaze, a faint smile touching her lips, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the fabric.
From the edge of the room, a small voice suddenly spoke up.
"Mother, Aunt," her younger cousin said seriously, her brows drawn together, "I'm still not ready to let Sister Rai go. Isn't she too small to get married?"
The room fell quiet for half a breath—
Then laughter broke out.
Her mother shook her head, amusement clear in her eyes. "She is small," she said warmly. "And she always will be—to us."
She turned toward the little girl, tapping her lightly on the forehead. "And you? You're small too. You don't even reach half our height, yet you're speaking as though you're the elder sister here."
The child puffed out her cheeks in protest, folding her arms. "Hmph."
The laughter returned, gentle and unforced, filling the room once more.
Rai watched them, her smile lingering as her fingers smoothed the fabric before her once more. The preparations continued—voices overlapping, cloth being folded and unfolded again—filling the room with warmth that felt almost timeless.
Almost.