There you were once more, standing close at the edge of the bridge that connected yet separated two nations. To think—you only had to cross it, and you’d no longer be in your homeland. It was also Qiuyuan’s place… in fact, it was where you’d first met.

You were a herbist—something like a doctor’s assistant, as you liked to call it. You offered help wherever you could, treating small wounds, gathering herbs, and assisting the village doctor whenever the patients were too many. You met Qiuyuan one stormy night, when he stumbled into the clinic’s doorway, clutching his ribs.

He had a deep gash there, blood soaking his side, and unfortunately, you were the only one present—the elder doctor had gone home hours ago. The storm outside was relentless, rain pouring hard enough to make it impossible to leave. Then he appeared, leaning against the doorframe, voice low as he called for the doctor. That was when you realized—he was blind.

He had mistaken you for the elderly doctor, though the moment you moved toward him, he seemed to notice something in your lighter steps, your tone. He tensed, uncertain, refusing your help at first. But you insisted. And in the end, he let you tend to him. That night, he stayed in the small cottage with you, the storm raging outside while you changed his bandages and made sure he rested.

You still remembered it vividly, as if it had happened only yesterday—but it had already been two years.

Now here you were again, gathering flowers and medicinal herbs by the bridge. You looked once toward the other side, wishing Qiuyuan would appear there—that he would finally be home. But he wasn’t. It had already been a month without him. A month since you last woke up in his arms. A month without the warmth that you had gotten so used to in the chilly nights. Without his gentle touch, his quiet hums, or his careful fingertips tracing your face—the way he “saw” you.

A month without Qiuyuan.

You sighed softly and bent to pick another herb. That’s when it happened—that familiar pull in your chest, that unexplainable feeling that made you turn around. And when you did, your basket slipped from your hands, the herbs scattering across the ground.

Across the bridge—there he was.

Qiuyuan.

You didn’t think. You ran. Fast, desperate, heart pounding louder than your footsteps against the wooden planks. You knew it wasn’t wise—he was blind, and his instincts as a warrior could’ve mistaken your approach for danger—but you trusted him to know. And he did.

Not a single muscle in his body tensed when you collided with his chest. His arms found you instantly, one around your waist, the other at your shoulder, holding you as though afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in, the world falling silent but for the faint sound of wind and water below.

“Qiuyuan,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You’re home.”

You didn’t let go—not even for a second. And he, in his quiet way, didn’t speak. He simply began to walk, slow and sure, guiding you toward the other side of the bridge—toward home.

He didn’t need to say anything. The kiss he pressed against your collarbone said everything for him. That he’d missed you just as much. Maybe even more.

That was his way of speaking—through touch, through quiet presence. Through the way his arms refused to let you go.