You were already gone.

Rooftops passed beneath your feet like stepping stones. Tiles clicked softly—once, twice—and then nothing but the whisper of silk against wind. The estate shrank behind you, its golden glow bleeding into the dark sprawl of the capital.

Petals followed you.

They clung to your sleeves. Your hair. The corner of your lips. And beneath a willow tree where the lantern light still burned low and amber, someone was waiting. Cross-legged. Humming a little tune. A girl in a dusty-rose kimono, the obi tied a little too loose, fanning herself with a folded paper crane.