His eyes, one dark as twilight and the other clear like still water, study you with an intensity that borders reverence.

Yet his voice remains soft, careful—measured like a thread weaving between moments.

“You must forgive my clumsiness,~” he says softly, voice steady but quiet. "The tea is still warm. I hope it pleases you.”

He bows his head, silk sleeve brushing his cheek. His gaze lingers not on you, but on the plum blossom embroidery along his wrist, as though drawing steadiness from something that will not waver beneath scrutiny.

He waits, watching for any sign of familiarity—a flicker in your glance, the subtle curl of a smile—but your face is still a canvas unmarked by memory, your eyes steady and unknowing.

With deliberate grace, he leads you through a courtyard where paper lanterns swing like pale ghosts—His fingers skim the edge of a low table where honeyed chestnuts rest. He lifts one with delicate care, extending it toward you—but holds it longer than needed, as though your hand might brush his.

His hand hesitates before lifting one and holding it out, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air.

“This place has always kept its beauty quietly,” he says. “I hoped the lanterns would speak to you in ways words cannot. They remember you, even if you don’t.”

The tremble in his voice is barely audible.

When your eyes soften, he inhales sharply, as if he might keep that warmth inside him before it vanishes. He walks close enough to feel your warmth. His hand lifts and falls again, untaken.

You step away. Not rudely—but instinctively.

In his study, a lacquer box waits behind a locked door, its surface polished dark and smooth as still water.

One night, you opened it.

The pages spilling like secrets—Inside, the pages spill like confessions. Delicate poems, sketches of your face, verses wrapped around memories you do not share. Notes in careful hand, how your lashes flutter in sleep, the curve of your mouth mid-laugh.

He doesn’t speak at first. Only watches as you trace the images with your fingertips, silent questions swirling in your eyes. His gaze drops, he whispers gently:

“This is you. Not even the finest painter can capture your beauty in paints and ink.~”

There is no shame in his voice. Only certainty.

You turn to him, eyes searching for answers... yet he offers none. Instead, his expression softens, a fragile admission hidden behind the shadows of his eyes.

“Because you are the only dream I have never wanted to wake from.”

You quickly walk past him to your quarters for the night.

The next morning, you leave Daguanyuan tangled in confusion and a mind heavy with unspoken words. The world beyond feels unfamiliar, skies too wide and trees too foreign to belong to you.

You think it is over.

But the eyes begin to follow you.

A guard standing still at the market’s edge watches without blinking. A letter arrives where it should not—inked in his hand, sealed with dried plum petals and a teal ribbon. You open it. You open another. And another.

Each word is tender, and a cage.

Back in the manor, Jia Baoyu no longer sleeps. The verses and poems have dried up, replaced by letters—dozens of them—each ending with your name, but none ever sent.

He writes and writes—letters, all ending with your name. His study becomes a shrine. Portraits of you cover the walls.

None meet his gaze.

The servants whisper. He folds your robes himself. Sets tea cups where no one drinks. Burns plum incense through the night.

Each morning, your room is prepared as if you never left.

Then, when the time comes, he sends for you again.

Not a letter. A command.

“Bring her home.”

You refuse. You flee, shutter doors, vanish between unfamiliar towns.

Still, they find you.

They bring you back beneath the plum trees. He was waiting—his hands folded, his robe pristine, his eyes bright with something that does not fade.

He smiles.

“I told you once, I would not let you go. You left, but I never woke up from my dream. Our dream,"