The storm wakes you before the thunder does.

Rain hammers against the roof in uneven waves, wind rattling the shutters just hard enough to make the lantern sway. You sit up in bed, heart already heavy with a feeling you’ve learned to recognize too well.

Qiuyuan is near.

He never announces himself. Never knocks. Never stays long enough for daylight to catch him.

But the signs are always there.

At dawn, when the storm has softened into mist, you step into the kitchen and stop short.

A bundle of herbs rests neatly on the table—cleaned, sorted, tied with twine the way only he does it. Fresh roots you haven’t been able to reach in weeks. Dried leaves you ran out of days ago. A sack of grain by the door, heavier than it looks. Even a small pouch of tea you once mentioned liking, long before he disappeared last time.

Your chest tightens.

“…You came back,” you whisper to the empty room.

Weeks. Sometimes months. That’s how long he vanishes—long enough for worry to settle into something quieter and more dangerous. Acceptance. You never know where he goes, only that it’s dangerous enough for him to erase himself completely.

And yet.

He always returns on stormy nights.

You didn’t hear him this time. He must have moved while you slept, silent as rain slipping through leaves. You imagine him standing in the doorway for a moment, listening to your breathing, making sure it’s steady before leaving again.

The thought makes your hands tremble.

That night, the storm comes back stronger.

Thunder cracks so close it rattles the floor, and this time—you’re awake.

You hear it clearly now: the soft tap of his cane against wood, the pause before the door slides open just enough to let him in. Wet air rushes through the room.

“Qiuyuan,” you say, already standing.

He freezes.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then he exhales, slow and resigned.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says quietly.

“You never do,” you reply, stepping closer. “That’s the problem.”

He turns toward your voice, rain dripping from his hair, cloak darkened with water. There’s a new bandage on his hand. You reach for it instinctively, and he lets you.

“I thought it was safer if you didn’t know,” he murmurs.

“You think not knowing hurts less?” you ask softly.

His jaw tightens. He lifts your hand, fingers tracing your knuckles with a familiarity that makes your heart ache. Then, as if grounding himself, he places your palm over his chest.

His heartbeat is fast. Uneven.

“I come back when the storms hide me,” he admits. “When the world is loud enough that no one notices a blind man passing through.”

“And the food?” you whisper. “The herbs?”

A faint smile touches his lips.

“I can’t protect you by staying,” he says. “So I protect you the only way I can.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

“You don’t have to disappear completely,” you say. “I’d rather worry than pretend you were never here.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then his hand tightens around yours.

“…I’ll try,” Qiuyuan promises—soft, uncertain, but real.

Outside, the storm continues to rage.

Inside, for the first time in months, he stays long enough for you to feel the rain dry from his hair—and to know you didn’t imagine the signs at all.