Silence hovered, broken only by breath and the faint crackle of lamp oil.
After a long moment, Yujin spoke again — softer, as if confessing to night itself:
"When I was eighteen, there was a festival near Cloud Recesses — celebrating the Lan Clan's renewal after the war. Townfolk brought hundreds of caged birds: white, to honor Gusu's purity; and a few purple, dyed gentle lilac — rare and pretty."
His hand, still wrapped around the cup, trembled.
"They opened the cages all at once. White wings rose, cloud upon cloud — beautiful, free."
"But there was one pair: a white and a purple bird, perched together. When the doors opened, the white bird flew far, joined the sky."
A swallow. Voice roughened.
"The purple one tried. It fluttered — but a silent flaw in its wing… it fell. Into the crowd."
Yujin's eyes glistened, breath catching.
"No one saw. Too busy watching the white birds. The purple one died underfoot — unnoticed."
Xiao, silent now, reached out — not quite touching, but near.
"You remember it still," he murmured.
"I do," Yujin breathed. "Because Wangji… he was the white bird. Flew far, pure, untouchable."
Voice cracking:
"And I was the other. Tried to follow — failed. No one remembers the one that fell."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
Only the hush of the Pavilion walls, the scent of cooled wine, and one silent oath neither dared say aloud:
"Even broken wings once tried to fly."
Yujin's breath caught; he blinked quickly, but a tear fell, darkening the sleeve.
Xiao watched it fall — and for once, didn't tease.
Instead, he only whispered:
"You're here still, aren't you? Even if you fell."
And the night stretched on — quiet, raw, almost tender.