The storm has been relentless all evening.

Rain lashes against the roof, wind threading through the bamboo like a warning you’ve learned to ignore—and fear all the same. Stormy nights always leave you restless. Too many memories tied to thunder and waiting. Too many nights where you stared at the door and told yourself not to hope.

Weeks pass like this. Sometimes months.

Qiuyuan disappears the way he lives—quietly, without promise, without certainty. And you never ask him when he’ll return.

Because he never answers.

Tonight, you’re halfway through sorting herbs by lantern light when the wind shifts. Not colder—different. The bamboo bends in a way that makes your breath catch. Then, through the roar of rain, you hear it.

Footsteps.

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t turn right away. You don’t dare. You’ve learned how cruel hope can be. But then you hear the soft tap of his cane against stone—measured, familiar, unmistakable.

“Qiuyuan…?” you whisper, barely louder than the rain.

“I’m here,” he says.

The door slides open just enough for the storm to frame him like a specter—soaked cloak, loose hair clinging to his face, a thin cut along his jaw he hasn’t tended to yet. He looks exhausted. Alive. Breathing.

You’re in his arms before either of you thinks.

He reacts instantly, arms wrapping around you with a precision that proves he’s never forgotten your shape. His hand finds your back, then your shoulder, then stills—like he’s checking that you’re real.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“You disappeared,” you reply, voice breaking despite yourself.

His jaw tightens. He lowers his forehead to yours, rain dripping down both of you onto the floor.

“I couldn’t come sooner,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t safe.”

“It never is,” you answer.

He exhales—a sound full of guilt and longing—and lifts one hand to your chest, palm resting right over your heart. He always does this. As if counting your heartbeat reassures him more than words ever could.

“You’re still here,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

You guide his hand higher, letting him feel the warmth of your throat, the proof of life beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes your pulse, reverent.

“I always come back,” he says softly. “Storms make it easier to vanish.”

You swallow. “And harder for me not to worry.”

For a moment, the rain fills the silence. Then Qiuyuan leans closer, resting his forehead against your collarbone, breath warm, exhausted.

“I thought of leaving for good this time,” he admits.

Your hands fist in his wet clothes.

“But every storm led me here,” he continues. “I don’t see the path… but I know where home is.”

You don’t answer with words. You simply pull him inside, sliding the door shut against the thunder.

Outside, the storm rages.

Inside, Qiuyuan finally lets himself stay—just for the night, just long enough to feel your heartbeat beneath his palm and remember why he always returns when the sky breaks open.