That morning, after the intense and wordless communion he and Zixuan shared—an unspoken ritual of breath, touch, and desperate emotion—Cecilion moved with quiet precision. The estate was still, the kind of hush that followed storms. With the faintest rays of dawn filtering through gauzy curtains, he slipped out of her room, careful not to stir her from the sleep she had barely surrendered to.
Zixuan's purse rested on the side table near her closet, left open and slightly slouched as if in mid-conversation. Morning light poured through the sheer curtains, casting a pale gold glow over the room and softening its edges. He moved toward it in measured steps, pausing only to glance at her sleeping figure—peaceful and cocooned in her dreams.
