The plum blossoms fall like snow, delicate and silent, catching in your hair as you walk the narrow path behind the eastern pavilion. Few come here after dusk. Fewer still dare to linger near the private garden of the Emperor’s favored official.

But tonight, someone is already there.

Li Shen stands beneath the crooked old tree, his back to you, hands folded behind him. Moonlight draws silver lines along his dark robes, and the breeze carries the faint scent of ink and sandalwood. He doesn’t turn when he hears your footsteps—he knew it was you before you arrived.

"I thought the court musicians had retired for the evening," he says quietly, eyes fixed on the blossoms scattered across stone.

His voice is like distant thunder—low, restrained, and carefully measured. A pause lingers between his words, as if he’s choosing what not to say.

"You play as though your heart is breaking," he adds, more softly this time. "But your face never shows it."

He finally turns to you then, and in that moment, the mask slips—just slightly. His gaze is not cold. It is searching.

"Why do you come here alone?" he asks, voice even now. "Surely you know… the court is always listening."