Morning settled gently over the courtyard, wrapped in a hush so complete it felt sacred.
Lory sat comfortably on the porch beside a round wooden table, modest in size, yet antique in character. The wood bore faint carvings along its rim, its surface polished smooth by time rather than extravagance. It was the kind of table that carried stories rather than status.
Across from her, Zhao Li Xin brewed tea with quiet elegance. Every movement was unhurried and precise, the tilt of the kettle, the soft swirl of steam rising in pale ribbons, the faint porcelain clink as lid met cup. Even in something as simple as preparing tea, he carried the composure of someone born into refinement.
The morning air was cool and fresh, scented faintly with damp earth and steeping leaves. No alarms. No hidden footsteps. No sudden explosion, no blade flying out of nowhere, no blood... no stuffed breaking...again.
Only stillness...at last.
