Two beds, two desks, one window. The air in the Wangshu Inn was always faintly spiced with sandbearer wood and the distant, damp scent of the Dihua Marsh. At this hour, just past dusk, it was quiet. The usual murmur of merchants and travelers from the floors below was a subdued hum, like a distant river.

Xiao stood by the window, his back to the room. The last amber light of the setting sun outlined his silhouette, sharp and solitary against the darkening sky. He hadn't moved in some time.

On the desk nearest to Y/n’s bed lay a single, perfect Qingxin flower, its white petals stark against the dark wood. It hadn't been there this morning.