The village settled into routine quickly.
Morning markets opened with the sound of wooden stalls being set in place. The scent of steamed grains and boiled roots drifted through narrow paths. Children ran barefoot between houses, laughter trailing behind them like loose thread.
Ye found himself learning these rhythms without effort.
He woke early, helped the innkeeper carry water, repaired a broken fence without being asked. His movements were efficient, practiced—but not rushed. Mortal tasks required patience more than power.
Ling Yue noticed.
"You work like you've done this before," she said one morning, handing him a length of rope. "But you don't look like someone who's lived here long."
He accepted the rope. "I adapt quickly."
She smiled at that, amused. "That sounds like something a traveler would say."
"Is that bad?"
"No," she replied. "Just rare."
---
They spent more time together now.
Not deliberately. Not planned.
It happened naturally—shared paths, overlapping errands, moments where one waited for the other without quite admitting it.
Ling Yue talked more when they walked.
She spoke about the village, about the old tree, about how her parents had taught her which herbs healed and which harmed. Some stories were light, others tinged with something unresolved.
Ye listened.
He did not interrupt.
He did not advise.
He simply stayed.
Once, she stopped mid-sentence and looked at him strangely.
"What?" he asked.
"You always listen like it matters," she said. "Most people don't."
Ye looked away. "It does matter."
Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary.
---
That afternoon, the sky turned bright and cloudless.
Ling Yue sat on the low stone wall near the well, feet dangling, watching villagers pass. Ye stood nearby, hands folded loosely at his back.
"You don't talk about yourself," she said suddenly.
He raised an eyebrow slightly. "You haven't asked."
She laughed. "Fair enough. Then I am asking now."
He considered.
What could he say that was true—and safe?
"I haven't stayed anywhere long," he said at last. "This place is… different."
"How?"
He looked at her.
"It's quiet in a way that doesn't feel empty."
Ling Yue's smile softened. "That's a nice way to put it."
She studied him openly now, no longer pretending not to.
"Will you leave soon?" she asked.
The question was casual. Almost careless.
But Ye heard the hesitation beneath it.
"I don't know," he said.
She nodded, accepting uncertainty the way she accepted most things—with grace.
"I hope you don't," she added.
---
Evening came with soft orange light.
Ling Yue walked him partway back toward the inn, hands clasped loosely in front of her. They moved slower than usual, as if neither wanted the walk to end.
At the crossroads, she stopped.
"This is where we part," she said.
"Yes."
Another pause.
She shifted her weight, then looked up at him. Their eyes met—and for a heartbeat, neither spoke.
The world felt strangely still.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, more statement than question.
Ye nodded. "Tomorrow."
She turned and walked away, not looking back.
Ye remained where he was long after she disappeared down the path.
For the first time since arriving, he did not feel the weight of exile pressing against him.
Instead, he felt something far more dangerous.
Belonging.