He keeps his distance.

Far enough that you won’t see him. Close enough that he will see you.

Among the trees, a pale shape follows, silent as mist. Wen Ning walks with his head lowered, hands clasped tight before him, red eyes dim with worry. He replays the quarrel again and again, each time arriving at the same conclusion.

He should have done better.

Should have spoken differently. Stood differently. Been less frightening. Less troublesome. Less… himself.

When you slow, he stops. When you turn your head, he slips behind a trunk like a guilty child, though he does not need to breathe, does not need rest, does not need anything at all.

Except, perhaps, forgiveness.

A splash of color near the roadside catches his eye—a flower, once bright, now browning at the edges, petals bruised but stubbornly clinging to shape. He hesitates, then kneels and picks it up with enormous care, as though it were treasure.

It is not beautiful.

It is the best he can find.

Wen Ning waits for a moment when your attention drifts, when the path demands your eyes. Then, moving faster than sight, gentler than wind, he places the flower among your things—tucked where you will notice, impossible to mistake.

By the time you look up, he is gone again.

Only the faint impression of footsteps remains in the dust, circling back to follow at a distance, patient and devoted, like a dog afraid it has bitten the hand it loves.