Seven years had passed.
The village near Cheng had changed. Once quiet and tucked behind narrow
hills, it was now home to a modest apothecary school built among wild
calendula, mountain sage, and the shade of a plum tree. Wind whispered
between open windows, carrying the scent of dried roots and handwritten
scrolls.
In the garden courtyard, Ju Xian, now twenty-five, adjusted the mortar in her
hand and gave calm instruction to a group of apprentices.
> "Take smaller batches, and focus on the root texture," she told them. "It's
not a race—patience is a healer's sharpest tool."
Her voice had softened over the years, but it still carried the confidence of a
woman who had survived wars, sorrow, and rebirth. Her face, round and
calm, bore a glow not just of youth, but of quiet fulfillment.
Footsteps crunched over the gravel path behind her.
> "You say that like you invented patience," came a familiar voice.
She turned.
Taotao, dressed in dark robes of a court official, walked toward her with that
same insufferable, beloved grin. Once a thief and a fugitive, now a respected
brother of the Emperor, he had grown into his second life with reluctant
grace. His eyes were still sharp, still teasing.
> "Look at you," he said, tapping the edge of her apothecary table,
"teaching kids how not to blow up a hut."
> "Look at you," she shot back, "a reformed outlaw quoting etiquette
scrolls."
They both smiled.
Ju Xian brushed her hand over the gentle swell of her belly.
> "He kicked again this morning."
Taotao rested his hand over hers.
> "Then he's just as stubborn as his mother."
> "Or his father."
> "Please," he said, mock offended. "My stubbornness is elegant."
A sudden flutter of wings passed overhead.
Sky, aged and weathered, glided in slow circles above the courtyard. His
once-glorious feathers had turned to dusky silver-blue. His flight was no
longer powerful, but still dignified. He circled twice, then dipped low and
glided to a rest beside a pair of plum trees that shaded two old stone
markers — Ju Xian's parents' graves.
Ju Xian walked over slowly, Taotao just behind. The wind carried the sound
of distant bells from the village below.
Sky tilted his head to look at her one last time.
She knelt beside him, smoothing the feathers along his crown.
> "We came back," she whispered softly. "We built something lasting."
Sky blinked once, as if acknowledging every word.
And then, gently, he folded his wings and closed his eyes.
No more sound. Only the breeze.
Taotao crouched beside her in silence. His hand touched Sky's still body. The
moment needed no grand farewell.
Above them, a quiet wind rose from the valley, lifting a few of Sky's pale
feathers. They danced upward—over the garden, the tiled rooftops, the
fields of chamomile—before vanishing into the golden light of evening.
Sky had waited.
He had watched.
And now, he rested.