I turned on my heel and left the house before my legs gave out.
I didn't know where I was going—only that I needed to breathe, to get away before I broke apart in front of him. The cold air stung my face as I crossed the fields in a blur, my footsteps carrying me toward a lone tree beyond the far fence. I collapsed beneath its branches and buried my face in my hands.
Tears spilled freely—hot, silent, and relentless.
The last time I'd cried like this was years ago… when Jinjing died in my arms.
And now it was happening again.
First Jinjing. Now Feng'er. Two souls who had carved themselves into my heart. Two lights that had burned bright—then vanished without warning.
My vision swam as grief coiled in my chest, sharp and suffocating. I sat beneath that tree, shoulders trembling, the ache inside me growing into a roar I couldn't silence.
For the first time since this journey began, I felt truly alone.
Feng'er had been my light, however chaotic. He made me laugh when I forgot how. He made me smile when I didn't want to.
And now that light was gone, snuffed out by fractured memory.
"Are you alright?"
The voice startled me.
I quickly wiped my face and turned toward it.
Lan Feng was standing nearby—or at least, the man who now bore his name. He leaned heavily on my bamboo stick, his steps unsteady, every breath a labor. He looked pale and drawn, and the sight of him sent a new wave of worry through me.
I forced a small smile. My chest still ached, but I managed to speak evenly. "I'm fine," I said softly, moving toward him. "You shouldn't be out here. You're still recovering."
He didn't answer right away, only looked at me with quiet concern. "I was worried about you," he said, his voice low but sincere.
Without another word, I took the bamboo stick from his grip and slid an arm around his waist, steadying him as I guided him back toward the house. He didn't resist. His hand was cold in mine, and each step he took was labored.
"It's freezing out here," I murmured, half-chiding. "You should be resting. Not wandering around like some ghost."
He let out a soft exhale as I helped him settle onto the bed. Even the short walk had left him breathless. He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closing for a moment.
"I saw you under the tree," he said quietly, his voice thin. "You looked… troubled."
I sat beside him, struggling for a reply. My throat was tight, the weight of grief still fresh. But I nodded. "I'm sorry you saw that." I looked away, focusing on the grain of the floorboards. "I was remembering someone. Someone I lost not long ago. Sometimes… the grief comes back like a wave."
He was silent for a moment. "Someone close to you?" he asked.
I nodded slowly. "Very close."
Another beat passed. "A lover?"
I shook my head, eyes still lowered. "No. A brother."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was thoughtful.
Lan Feng lowered his gaze to his hands, as if turning the words over in his mind. "I see," he said softly, his tone shaded with understanding—gentle and quiet, as though mourning something unnamed of his own.
Not wanting the conversation to linger in mourning, I turned to the small table where I had placed a bowl of soup and vegetables. I picked it up and returned to his side. "Your breakfast's getting cold," I said, offering it to him with a spoon.
He accepted the bowl, but his hands were trembling badly. The spoon slipped in his grip, and I reached out instinctively, catching it before he spilled everything onto the blanket.
"Let me," I said gently, taking the bowl and spoon from him without waiting for an answer.
A faint blush rose on his cheeks as he looked away. "I'm sorry," he muttered, frustration coloring his voice. "I'm trying."
"There's nothing to be sorry for," I said, scooping up a spoonful. "Now, open your mouth."
He obeyed without protest, accepting the food slowly. He chewed and swallowed with effort, but I could tell how drained he still felt.
"It's good," he said after a moment, though his voice lacked its usual enthusiasm.
As I continued feeding him, memories of Feng'er flooded my mind.
"Gege, any food is delicious as long as you're the one who cooked it," he would've said, eyes shining, mouth already open for the next bite.
The phantom echo of his voice twisted in my chest. I forced the memory aside and focused on the man before me.
When the bowl was empty, I passed him a cup of milk. He drank slowly, his hands still unsteady, but he managed without spilling a drop.
"Thank you," he said after finishing, his tone soft and formal. "I appreciate the effort you've gone through to take care of me."
The words, polite and distant, caught me off guard. I stared at him for a moment too long, startled by how composed he sounded. That level of decorum—I hadn't encountered it since my days in the Frost Mountain Sect, and even then, rarely among those my age.
Sensing my surprise, he offered a small, reserved smile. "Do you mind if I ask your name?"
I took a breath, steadying myself. "My name is Luo Fan," I said. "Does that sound familiar to you?"
He tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly as if turning the name over in his mind. After a pause, he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he murmured, a trace of genuine regret in his voice. "It doesn't."
Disappointment clawed at me, but I kept my expression neutral. "That's alright," I said, managing a small smile.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage that wrapped from the back of his head to just above his brows. "What happened to me?" he asked, not with panic, but with calm curiosity.
"Don't touch it," I said quickly, reaching out to lower his hand. "There's a fracture in your skull. It hasn't fully healed. You need to be careful."
He nodded, accepting the instruction without argument. I braced myself for a barrage of questions—how he got hurt, where he was, who I was to him—but instead, he sat in silence. Quiet. Composed. Just like Feng'er had been the first time he'd woken up with no memory.
"I understand," he said simply, and handed me the empty cup.
I took it and retreated to the kitchen, the routine motions of washing dishes doing little to still the thoughts racing through my mind.
Who is this man?
He wasn't Feng'er. The childlike sweetness, the impulsive affection, the way he clung to me like I was the only stable thing in his world—none of it remained. He was not Ruan Yanjun either. This man was something else entirely: calm, mature, and hauntingly unfamiliar.
When I returned to the room, I found him attempting to stand, carefully circling the bed with my bamboo stick in hand, using it as a cane. At first, irritation sparked in me—That's my weapon, not a walking stick—but it faded almost instantly.
He moved stiffly, cautiously, like someone learning to walk again. His grip tightened on the stick with each shaky step, and there was something in his eyes—determination, dignity—that made my chest tighten.
"Take it slow," I said as I approached. "You're still recovering."
He glanced my way and nodded. "I'll do my best."
I watched him silently, the ache in my chest refusing to fade.