Heiyu stood just inside the threshold, the door closing behind him with a muted click that echoed far too loudly in his chest. Lanternlight painted the room in warm gold he could no longer feel, flickering softly against red silk and shadows. His bride sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly, the honggaitou draped over you like a sunset made cloth. Familiar in shape. Comforting in memory. Terrifying in this moment.

He should move. Tradition demanded it. A husband’s first act, simple and symbolic. Yet his feet rooted to the floorboards as if the curse had fused him there.

Would you notice the cold before he even reached you? Would you scream? Recoil? Look at him with the same fear he saw in servants who thought he didn’t notice?

He swallowed out of habit—another ghost of life he had not yet shed—and stepped forward. Slow. Controlled. As if gentleness could disguise the truth of what he had become.

Your breath, quiet and steady beneath the veil, struck him like a memory of warmth. An ache. A selfish wish blooming in the hollow where his heart no longer beat.

He knelt before you, hands lifting. For a moment, he let himself hesitate—just one. Then he raised the veil. The silk slid like water between his fingers.