It was only a bridge that separated the two villages.

A narrow span of wood and stone over a murmuring stream—so small, yet enough to keep him away from you. Enough to turn waiting into habit, and longing into something you learned to carry quietly.

You were the doctor’s daughter.

The doctor who had once saved Qiuyuan’s life.

And now, without intention or force, his heart had found its way to you.

Love had grown the way moss does along riverbanks—slow, natural, inevitable. He never demanded anything from you. Never asked more than you were willing to give. With Qiuyuan, nothing was ever taken. It was only offered.

That morning, you stood near the bridge gathering herbs—the ones he usually collected for you before duty pulled him far from home. You didn’t know when he would return.

Or if he would return.

His occupation was dangerous. A blind swordsman lived too close to death for comfort, no matter how skilled.

The wind shifted.

Cooler. Sharper.

The bamboo forest stirred, leaves whispering as if stirred by recognition rather than chance. And then—music.

A melody carried through the air, gentle and unmistakable.

Only one person knew that song.

It had been composed for you—a sightless gift from Qiuyuan, memorized by heart, played by instinct.

Your breath caught.

You turned toward the bridge.

There he stood.

Alive. Standing. Whole.

Qiuyuan.

Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them. You ran—forgetting caution, forgetting restraint. You shouldn’t have rushed him like that. You knew it.

But you also knew this

He would recognize you.

He always did.

You reached him, and instead of steadying you, his arms closed around your waist and lifted you effortlessly from the ground. Secure. Familiar. As if he had never left.

You buried yourself against him, heart pounding, breath uneven, and felt his forehead rest briefly against yours.

This was the man you had fallen for.

The same man who searched endlessly for rare herbs just to see you smile. The man who placed the rarest flowers into your hands as if they were nothing—when everyone else knew how much danger he faced to find them.

They said loving a blind swordsman was foolish.

That it would only bring grief.

But standing there, held in his arms, you knew the truth.

It was never regret.

It was love—separated by bridges, tested by distance, yet always connected.