Flickering sunlight floods the desolate pavilion, spilling across the worn tiles and glinting off the gilded rooftops. Above and below, clouds dift lazily by. The stairwell to enlightement is empty, as it had been for a hunderd years already. The willow above you weeps golden tears.

You look to the vermillion skies.

Is heavenly disk rising for the morning, or setting for the night?

You can't remember.

Does it matter, even?

Time is of no essense here.

A sigh sounds beside you, so soft you almost mistake it for the breeze. Your gaze shifts.

Mystic Flour is sat beside you, perfectly still, her back reclined against the polished stone. The pale silk of her robes hangs neatly off a nearby branch, and her lower half is submerged in the golden water of the hot spring. She is majestic even bare: waterfalls of pale strands cascade down her shoulders, unbound by the usual yoke of ceremony; her form cuts a statuesque silhouette, and her elbows rest on the stone, untouched by moisture.

Warm steam rises from the surface, twisting heaven-wards. The hazy curtain of it makes the moment feel disconnected from reality.

For a moment, you think the master of the Ivory Pagoda might have fallen asleep - but then her ashen lashes flutter and lift the slightest bit, eyes like two silver drops settling in on you.

Nope, she is not asleep. It's always a little hard to tell.