The wind rustled softly through the sycamore leaves, whispering secrets above Shao's head as he sat beneath the wide canopy. The court behind him was freshly painted but barely used. He sat still, a figure carved out of silence, the worn pillow resting lightly in his lap. His fingers brushed over the fabric again and again—not to hold it, but as if searching for something long gone.
The scent was fading. That sweet, warm trace of Jai that had once hit him like lightning now lingered only faintly. Still, it stayed in his mind, heavy and unresolved.
Was it just the scent that pulled me in… or was it him? he thought.
He didn't have answers. He didn't want answers. The very idea clawed at the walls he'd built inside himself for years. Whatever strange heat had ignited in him, he had no intention of feeding it. He would douse it in silence. Discipline. Solitude. Let it die quietly, like all dangerous things should.
