Why did he even think to look at it? He wasn’t sure. It felt like he’d been expecting something. A call? A text message? Whatever it was, it never came.
An image of Rui appeared in his mind randomly, as it did sometimes, more often than he cared to admit. He wiped it away, but the stain remained. Even though their empathic bond had been severed, moments like these made him wonder.
His hands curled. Songs and books went on and on about the pain of romantic relationships ending, but they hardly spoke about the death of a friendship. Sometimes, it was slow and soundless. Other times, it was like a crash of thunder against a clear sky. Shocking and quick. A different kind of heartbreak that was no less deep.
There was no returning to what once was. Rui had gotten her magic back, and his former Academy schoolmates had theirs. Soon they would all become Exorcists. He was left behind, stuck once again behind a locked door. His palm stung as his nails dug in deeper, but the ache in his chest hurt more.
He stuffed his phone back into his pocket. The taxi had dropped him off minutes ago. Gripped by uncertainty, Yiran had hesitated at the cemetery gates. He only came here once a year on Tomb Sweeping Day with Ash and his grandfather, and never alone.
He was the illegitimate son, and his mother never spoke about the man who had stolen and discarded her heart. And when she abandoned Yiran too, the last link to the people who had brought him into this worldhad ceased to exist. There was no real reason to visit Song Liming’s grave beyond trifling sentiment. His father’s body had been lost in battle, and all these years, he’d watched his grandfather and half brother pay their respects to an empty coffin. But grief wasn’t meant to be rational, Yiran supposed. It was sustained by the memory of the living.
Ash had tried to share about their father in the beginning. It was soAshof him to want the little brother he never knew existed to be part of everything, to assume that Yiran had the same desire for connection and family history. Yiran had spurned his efforts—it was more painful to relive Ash’s happy memories and feel what he had missed out on himself than to know what kind of person their father had been. But right now, Yiran wondered if he’d been the fool all this time.
Stone-faced, he walked on. Some of the old cemeteries had been exhumed and redeveloped a few decades ago as the city grew and land became scarce. But this was one of the largest, and where most of the important families laid their dead to rest. It was nestled on a gentle hill rising to the north, as if the ancestors were watching over what they had built.
Despite the winter chill, the land grew more fertile as he approached the family plot, as if generations of Songs were feeding it well, their heightened spiritual energy making everything more vibrant and alive. One day, if Yiran was lucky, this would be where his own body would return to nature too.
A man in a nondescript black suit stood next to the pair of stone lions that marked the start of the property line. Seemed like his grandfather’s part-time chauffeur doubled as a security guard.
“Hey, George.”
If the man was surprised Yiran remembered his name, he didn’t show it.
“Good afternoon, Song er shaoye.”
“Feel free to call me Yiran.” Then, in a more cordial tone, “Congrats, by the way. How’s your wife doing? And the baby?”
NowGeorge looked surprised. He smiled, regarding Yiran with a bit more warmth.
Know your people. Treat them well and with respect, and they’ll be loyal to you.Yiran was pleased he’d remembered Ash’s advice.
“Thank you. They’re both healthy and doing well.”
Yiran clapped the man on the back as he walked past. “Glad to hear that. I’ll send some ginseng bird’s nest soup over for the wife.”
“That’s very kind of you, er shaoye.” Yiran was barely a few steps down the path when George called out, “You know, your father was a good man.”
Pebbles crunched. Yiran’s boots ground to a halt. A robin flew by, chirping loudly in the silence.
“I’m sorry you never got to meet him.”
It was too damn much.
“Have a good day, George,” Yiran said, sounding and feeling as though he’d swallowed a rock.
He quickened his pace and headed deeper into the cemetery, eager to leave the unwanted sympathy—thepity—behind. He’d had enough of it to last a lifetime. But he wasn’t angry with George. He was angry at himself for coming here to seek a solace the dead could not provide.
His thoughts were still swirling when he saw someone else standing by his father’s tomb. The man’s head was bowed, and he was staring at the polished granite monument bearing Song Liming’s name. His clothes looked a size too big, as though he was in the process of filling them after a long illness. A light flutter of snow had begun to fall, and the white crystals settled onto the man’s dark hair and wool coat. He didn’t seem to notice he wasn’t alone.
Yiran’s irritation grew. Why hadn’t George alerted him about the stranger? He took a step, making his presence known.
The man turned. “Li—” He did a double take and shook his head.
But Yiran could hear the words going through the man’s mind:It’s not him, it’s not Liming.
Too many people had said that Song Yiran resembled his late father, that his face was almost the spitting image from certain angles. It was aface he’d examined closely when he was younger, searching for answers to questions he wasn’t able to articulate yet. But eventually he discovered that people saw what they wanted to see, projecting their own fears and hopes onto others, especially those closest to them. He didn’t look like his father. He had his mother’s eyes, and that was enough to set him apart from the older Song. Enough to make him his own person.
The stranger’s features had smoothed over by now, and his eyes were friendly behind wire-frame glasses. He looked familiar—something about his nose and the angle of his chin. But Yiran didn’t recall meeting him at any extended family gathering before. Though it was obvious the man knew whoYiranwas. Best to take the polite route.
