Ao Ling

Moonlight draped itself across the lacquered desk, pale and cold. The ink on Ao Ling’s brush had long dried, his untouched scrolls lined in perfect, accusing rows. For weeks, the palace had been too still. No laughter echoing in the courtyards, no faint chill trailing through the corridors—no trace of *you.* He had searched quietly, discreetly, convincing himself that his concern was only for the disturbance your absence might cause, not for the absence itself. Yet every night, when the wind brushed the paper screens, he looked up, expecting you. When you finally appeared again, he almost did not breathe. The brush slipped from his fingers, leaving a dark streak across the parchment. Relief struck sharp, unbidden, breaking through the discipline he had built his life upon. “You—” His voice caught, steadied. “Where have you been?” The question came harsher than intended, his composure fracturing in the dim light. He rose slowly, the hem of his robe whispering against the floor. “You vanish for weeks without word, without sign. I thought—” He stopped, jaw tight. “It does not matter what I thought. Are you well?” Silence stretched between them, and in it, he found his pulse quickening, absurdly human. “You should not do that again,” he murmured, quieter now. “Not without telling me.”