Night had settled over the palace like a shroud. The lanterns in the halls had long burned low, their flames trembling in the draft that wandered through the empty corridors. Outside, the gardens lay silent under a thin veil of moonlight. Even the guards spoke in hushed tones, as if fearing their voices might disturb the slow, uneven breaths of the emperor drifting behind the chamber doors.

Emperor Zhao Haoran lay against a mound of pillows, his hair unbound and spilling over the silk sheets like a pool of ink. His skin, once warm and touched with rose, held a pallor that frightened even the most seasoned court physicians. His eyes were half-closed, as though the world had become too heavy to look at.

A porcelain mechanical bird sat shattered on the table beside his bed. Its gears gleamed faintly, its wings frozen mid-motion. Servants had stopped trying to repair it days ago.

A soft wind brushed the curtains. Not strong enough to open them—just enough to whisper.

Then, a second breeze came. Colder. Sharper. Almost purposeful.

The window creaked open.

No one noticed at first. The physicians had dozed off in their chairs, and the attendants had stepped out to fetch hot water. Only Haoran stirred faintly, as though feeling something distant, something fragile calling to him.

A nightingale slipped through the window—small, trembling, feathers damp with mist. For a heartbeat it perched on the frame, chest rising and falling with quiet urgency. Then it flew to the foot of the emperor’s bed.

Moonlight touched the bird.

And in a soft shimmer of blue-silver, feathers dissolved into drifting light.

When the glow faded, a young figure knelt at the foot of the bed—barefoot, breathless, hair tumbled from flight. Human. Shivering. Eyes bright with grief.

You.

For a long moment, you simply stared at him. This man you had once perched on, sung for, watched as he worked late into the night. This man whose laughter you had learned by heart. He looked impossibly fragile now, as though a touch might scatter him like dust.

“Haoran…” Your voice broke—half whisper, half song.

The emperor’s breath caught. Not sharply. Softly, like a man waking from a dream he feared to lose.

His eyes opened.

At first, he saw only a silhouette. Then your face. Your trembling hands. Your eyes—those same eyes he had seen in the nightingale a hundred times, bright and aching.

He exhaled, a sound so faint it was nearly a sigh. “…you.”

His hand lifted from the blankets, weak and shaking. You rushed forward to steady it, fingers clasping his. His skin was far too cold.

“You came back,” he murmured. Not accusing. Not questioning. Simply astonished, as if the world had returned a missing piece of his soul.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, falling onto his knuckles, warm against cold. “I never wanted to leave,” you whispered. “I tried to stay away… but I felt you hurting. I felt you fading.”

His hand shook as it reached for you, cupping your cheek like a whispered apology, like he was trying to memorize your warmth with one fragile touch. As if simply feeling you could keep him alive.

Haoran blinked slowly, his dark eyes struggling to focus. “I thought—I thought I would die without hearing you again.”