LUO FAN
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When I woke the next morning, the room was steeped in the soft, golden light of dawn spilling through the wooden shutters. Beside me, Lan Feng remained asleep, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm. I leaned closer, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist to check his pulse. It was calm and consistent. The fever had broken. His bandaged wound looked markedly improved, healing faster than I had expected.
The Crested Sea Lily truly lived up to its legend. Even though I hadn't refined it in ideal conditions, the elixir had worked wonders.
With Lan Feng still deep in sleep, I decided to step outside and look for something to eat. Just as I opened the door, I spotted Mao Hai approaching with a wicker basket tucked under one arm. He lifted it slightly in greeting.
"These are from my neighbor's farm," he said with a cheerful smile. "Eggs, fresh bread, and milk. They raise poultry and dairy goats—kind people. We've been trading goods for years. If you're short on vegetables, my field's just out back. Help yourself."
"Lao Mao, you're too kind," I said, bowing with gratitude. "I'll make sure not a scrap goes to waste."
He waved dismissively, that same genial warmth in his eyes. "Think nothing of it. It's rare I get to share my home with someone who isn't a chicken."
I smiled at that and returned inside, setting the basket on the kitchen counter. Dust clung to the utensils and pots, a sign of how long this house had sat unused. I wiped everything down and soon had the old stove alive and crackling again. The kitchen, though simple, was well-equipped. I made a plain soup with eggs and milk, but after one taste, I grimaced—bland. Uninspired.
Determined to improve it, I stepped into the field as Mao Hai had offered. Rows of thriving crops stretched before me, rich and vibrant. I gathered a handful of onions, carrots, and a firm head of cabbage, breathing in the earthy scent of the soil. There was a quiet serenity in that small patch of land, and for a moment, I envied the simplicity of the farmer's life.
Back inside, I chopped the vegetables finely and added them to the soup, then whipped up a rustic egg cake using the remaining eggs. As the food simmered, a fragrant aroma filled the room—warm, rich, and comforting. It smelled like home.
When everything was ready, I plated a portion for Mao Hai and brought it to him on the porch, where he was quietly sipping milk and chewing a piece of bread.
"Lao Mao," I said, setting the food gently before him. "Please have some. It's the least I can do to thank you for your hospitality."
His weathered face brightened with genuine delight as he accepted the bowl and spoon. "You're too kind, Priest Luo. It's been a long time since anyone's cooked for me."
I sat across from him. The scent of the freshly prepared soup wafted in the morning air, blending with the earthy fragrance of damp wood and dew. As he ate, I decided to bring up a subject that had been sitting at the edge of my thoughts.
"Lao Mao," I began cautiously, "would it be alright if we stayed another day? My friend is still unwell, and I don't want to push him to travel."
He paused mid-spoonful, thinking it over. Then he shook his head, not in denial, but with a kind of warm finality. "You don't need to ask for just one more day. Stay as long as you need. I've lived alone for years since my son moved away with his family. Having company here again—it's a blessing."
"Your son left the farm?" I asked, quietly curious.
He nodded, and a wistful expression softened his features. "Yes. He's a clever man, far brighter than I ever was. Studied hard, worked harder. Managed to get himself an education, even with what little we had. Three years ago, he earned a post at the Duke's court in Henyang. Took his wife and my two grandsons with him."
Henyang. A sizable city in the neighboring province. The distance was considerable.
"Why didn't you go with them?" I asked gently.
He sighed, a sound weighted with years of stubborn loyalty and quiet resignation. "This land's been in my family for generations. I couldn't bring myself to abandon it. Someone needs to keep it alive. I only hope one day one of my grandsons will return to inherit it."
A quiet ache bloomed in my chest. Devotion like his—rooted, selfless—was both noble and heartbreaking.
After a moment's pause, he set his bowl aside and turned his full attention to me. "Your friend… he looks seriously ill. Even if he seems better tomorrow, it's not wise to have him back on the road so soon." He hesitated, then added, "Why don't you stay for two weeks?"
"Two weeks?" I echoed, surprised.
He nodded. "I ask as a favor. You see, I've been meaning to visit my grandsons in Henyang, but I can't leave the farm unattended. If you stay, I'd feel at ease. Help with the crops while I'm gone, and I'll compensate you when I return. You're welcome to harvest anything you need for food while I'm away."
The offer caught me off guard. I weighed the risks in silence. Lan Feng's condition was still fragile. A longer rest would certainly help him recover. But lingering in one place too long, with wanted posters bearing our faces—especially his—was dangerous.
Still, the sincerity in Mao Hai's expression and the practicality of the offer tipped the scale.
"Alright," I said with a nod. "I'll stay and help with the farm. Thank you for trusting us."
His smile widened, lighting up his face. "Thank you, Priest Luo. I'll get started on packing right after breakfast!"
When I returned to the house, I found Lan Feng sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed silently on the floor. His posture was upright, back perfectly straight, hands loosely clasped over his knees. At a glance, he appeared well—but something was wrong. The way he held himself was too composed, too restrained. The air around him felt unfamiliar. Chillingly so.
"You're awake," I said, masking the knot of dread rising in my chest. I moved to the kitchen, ladled warm soup into a bowl, and approached him with forced calm. "How do you feel?"
He raised his head slowly. Our eyes met, and something inside me stilled. His gaze was distant, cold. His face expressionless. As if he were studying me… and didn't know me at all.
"Feng'er?" I asked cautiously, setting the bowl on the nightstand.
He flinched slightly at the name. A faint crease formed between his brows. "Y-you know me?" he asked, voice careful, polite—laced with a formality I hadn't heard from him before.
My heart dropped.
"Of course, I know you," I replied gently, though the words burned on the way out.
He didn't look reassured. If anything, his confusion deepened. "Have we… met before?"
The question struck like a blade to the chest. For a moment, I stood frozen. The warmth from the soup, the fire crackling in the hearth—none of it could thaw the cold settling inside me.
"You don't remember?" I asked, voice low, barely steady.
He shook his head. The motion was slow, hesitant. His gaze flicked back to mine, searching, unfamiliar. The playful light was gone. The softness. The warmth. Gone was the sweet, stubborn boy who had clung to me like I was his entire world.
I knelt down before him, trying to hold onto something—anything. I searched his face for a flicker of recognition, a shadow of emotion. But what stared back at me was calm detachment, measured and unreadable.
"How old are you?" I asked quietly, afraid of what I already knew.
He blinked, surprised, and gave the question serious thought before answering. "Twenty-four."
My breath caught.
Twenty-four. This wasn't the seventeen-year-old who had kissed my cheek and called me beautiful. This wasn't Feng'er. This was another version of him—older, distant, and void of the memories we had shared. That warm, unfiltered affection… it was gone. Without a word. Without a goodbye.
I struggled to speak, my throat tightening. Still, I managed, "Are you alright?"
He looked at me again. This time, there was something softer in his eyes—curiosity, maybe even awe. A flicker of the boy I had come to know. But just as quickly, it vanished. He turned away. "Sorry," he murmured, voice clipped and formal.
I blinked, startled. Feng'er had never apologized for looking at me. To him, staring was a right, a declaration, not something that required permission.
"You don't need to apologize," I said quietly.
He didn't answer.
The silence between us stretched, thick and hollow. I stepped back, my legs heavy, heart heavier still. The weight of loss settled over me—not loud, not sudden, but slow and suffocating.
I thought of his laughter, his shameless flirting, the way he curled into my side at night.
And now, he was gone.
Just like that.