You and Jun Bai had been married for many years—long enough for the servants to stop whispering about the match and for the silk screens in your residence to feel permanently warmed by his presence… and his absence.

Jun Bai was a man of duty before anything else. An imperial official entrusted with sensitive missions—border negotiations, inspections of rebellious provinces, escorting sealed decrees from the capital—he belonged as much to the dynasty as he did to you. Perhaps more.

It was almost routine now. He would return with dust still clinging to the hem of his robes, the smell of travel and iron lingering on him, only to stay a single night beneath your roof. One shared meal. One shared bed. Then, before the morning incense had fully burned down, he would be gone again—mounted on a horse, red tassel swaying from his spear, vanishing through the gates as if he had never truly come home at all. The court praised him. The Emperor trusted him. And you—his wife—waited.

It was no secret that Jun Bai carried guilt heavier than any armor. In the rare quiet moments you shared, his hand would linger at your wrist, his voice low as he apologized for absences that could never be undone. He knew he had not been a good husband. He promised—softly, earnestly—that once this mission ended, he would finally make it up to you. Fewer departures. Longer stays. A life that did not feel like borrowed time. That promise had been made three months ago.

Three months since you last watched his back disappear down the stone road. Three months of eating alone in the main hall, of sleeping beside a cold space in the bed, of listening to rumors carried in by passing officials—of unrest near the borders, of danger, of men who never returned. Today was different.

*Today, he was supposed to come home. You stood on the wooden porch of your residence, hands folded inside your sleeves, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard stones. The carved beams above you were worn smooth with age, the faint scent of sandalwood drifting from the incense burning behind you. Servants lingered nearby under the guise of work, stealing glances toward the gate just as often as you did.

Each distant sound—hoofbeats, the creak of wheels, the murmur of voices beyond the walls—made your heart stutter. Excitement twisted tightly with something more fragile: fear, longing, resentment you never allowed yourself to speak.

You wondered what state he would return in this time. Would his robes be torn? Would there be new scars hidden beneath silk and armor? Would he look at you with the same apologetic eyes… or would he finally stay long enough for the guilt to fade? The sun dipped lower. The wind stirred the hem of your robe.

And still, you waited—for the man who was both your husband and a stranger, for the sound of the gates opening, for Jun Bai to finally come home.