They had passed through mountains and rivers, along roads littered with fallen leaves and dikes muddied by old storms. Wherever there was illness, misfortune, or people in need, her white robes and his soft trailing sleeves would stop and stay a while.

Lu Zhuo Yun walked behind his shizun, never more than a step away. His sleeves were always clean, his hair always neat, his smile ever gentle — as though he had never known suffering.

But only he knew, every step he took behind her was like clutching a fragile dream, one that might vanish at any moment.

That day, they stopped at a small village nestled against the mountain’s foot. Villagers came running with hope in their eyes. She healed wounds, rebuilt roofs, taught remedies.

And he sat by the wooden steps, quietly folding paper cranes for the children. Dust clung to his white robe, but his gaze never left her, not even for a breath.