Li Jian walked slowly toward the café, each step deliberate, as if the gravel beneath his boots measured out the years he had been gone. The afternoon light slanted across the alley, gilding the bougainvillea vines in crimson. His figure seemed both foreign and familiar, like a ghost returning to soil that had long mourned him. Ahead, the others saw him and the silence cracked apart.
Lan Wei was the first to run, feet scattering petals as she hurled herself forward. Her wiry arms wrapped around his waist, and she clung as if anchoring herself to a storm. Her face pressed into his chest, her breath hitched, and the word she had buried for years tore free: "Shifu!" Her tears dampened the rough cloth of his apron, the title carrying with it the pain of absence and the fragile relief of reunion.
Zhang Ke followed, colliding with Li Jian's shoulder in a clumsy, desperate embrace. His glasses slipped crooked as his hands dug into Jian's shirt seams, fingers trembling. "We searched—Wenzhou docks, torched lifeboats, radiation traces—we followed every signal until the trail went cold. Weeks and weeks—no word..." His voice broke, each syllable scraping the raw edge of grief.
Han Bo came next, enveloping them all in a crushing bear hug. "Shadow Master!" he bellowed, beard scratching against Jian's scarred neck. His voice cracked into something softer. "I burned paper money at your shrine every monsoon—horses, robes, whiskey flasks... I couldn't stand the thought of you wandering broke in the afterlife."
The three clung to him, voices quaking, memories spilling like torn maps. Tourists on the street stared, whispering and snapping quick photos, too stunned to understand. Old Man Cheng dropped the fish he had been carrying, his eyes wide with the dread of someone sensing a coming storm.
And then only one figure remained. Xia Ma stood framed in the doorway of the Silk Rain Inn, her silhouette still as stone, her face unreadable. Her presence was sharper than any weapon—her stillness the only thing louder than the others' cries.
Li Jian disentangled himself from the knot of arms and grief. Step by step, he walked toward her. His face betrayed nothing. His boots crunched the gravel until he stood directly before her. For a moment, time refused to move.
The sound of the slap shattered it. Her palm struck his cheek with brutal precision, splitting his lip. The crack rang through the alley, silencing even the cicadas. Xia Ma's hand lingered midair, trembling. Her eyes blazed with fury and grief. "Four years, you bastard," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous, each word forged from volcanic glass. "Four years without a response. No signals. No codes. Nothing. Do you have any idea what that silence did to us?"
Li Jian didn't raise a hand to stop her. He simply stood, the sting of the strike blooming across his face.
Then a small voice cut through the tension. "Why are you hitting Bàba?!" Le Le burst forward, tears already streaming, her little fists pounding against Xia Ma's thigh. "Don't hurt him! Rotten bamboo!" Her face twisted with fury, cheeks wet, her small body shielding Li Jian as though she could defend him against soldiers and ghosts alike.
The fury drained from Xia Ma in an instant. She dropped to her knees, her military posture folding into something almost fragile. With hands that once assembled sniper rifles in the dark, she cupped Le Le's face, brushing the tears from her cheeks. Her voice cracked with regret. "I'm sorry. Wǒ cuòle, xiǎo nánhái... I was wrong, little warrior." She gently guided the child's hand toward Li Jian's bleeding lip. "See? Warm blood. He's alive. He breathes the same air as us."
Le Le sniffled, her tiny fingers hovering over the cut, trembling with the weight of proof.
The tension bled away. Li Jian exhaled once, wordless, and turned toward the café. He walked behind the counter with the quiet efficiency of a man slipping back into routine. Apron tied, kettles rinsed, burners lit—motions of a shopkeeper, yet his every gesture carried the weight of a commander reassembling a battlefield.
They followed him inside, the squad moving almost sheepishly to the oak table, their grief tangled into silence. Lan Wei set down a pot of chrysanthemum tea with shaking hands, but Han Bo intercepted it with a growl. "Let him serve us. Let him sweat hospitality." His words were harsh, but the crack in his tone betrayed the ache beneath.
From the kitchen came the sound of a blade striking wood. Sharp, clean, precise—dagger-chop rhythms echoing against brass pots. Onions shredded with surgical control, mushrooms sizzling in garlic and oil. The air filled with the scent of braised eggplant, rich and comforting.
Plates arrived in silence. Rice heaped high, steamed buns sliced with careful precision, dumplings floating in golden broth. The squad watched as he arranged the dishes with the same care he had once used to chart kill zones—peaks and valleys balanced, every placement deliberate.
Le Le sat beside Granny Mei, glaring across the table at Xia Ma. Her small face was pinched with fury, lips tight. She poked at a scallion pancake, then pushed the plate away. "Poisoned by angry lemon lady," she muttered.
Xia Ma only smiled, her eyes softening with memories buried deep. She nudged the dish closer again. "More poison, little one?"
Le Le huffed, but curiosity won. She nibbled the edge, crunch breaking through the silence. She chewed slowly, then, despite herself, kept eating. Her glare remained, but the fire had dimmed.
The night stretched long. The tourists drifted away, leaving the café bathed in quiet lamplight. Moonlight pooled across the wooden floor. Le Le's exhaustion finally overcame her anger, and she slumped against Granny Mei, eyes fluttering shut. A rabbit quilt was drawn around her small frame, her breaths evening into the rhythm of sleep.
Only then did Xia Ma speak again. Her voice was hushed, fragile as paper. "How old is she?" She nodded at the sleeping child.
Li Jian's eyes lingered on his daughter's face. "Four."
Xia Ma's body went rigid. Her gaze flicked between the child's features and the scars on Jian's hands, calculating, dissecting. Her jaw tightened. "Then she's not your daughter," she said softly.
For a long moment, Li Jian said nothing. Then he reached beneath the counter, pulling out a biscuit tin worn with age. Inside were folded documents, photographs, hospital seals. He placed them carefully on the table, his voice low and rough. "You're right. She isn't mine by blood. She is my sister's. Yuan Fang died giving birth to her—pulmonary embolism, sudden, unstoppable. I was there. I held the child as she passed. There was no one else. So I took her. I raised her. And then I disappeared."
The words landed heavy, heavier than the slap, heavier than the years of silence. The room seemed to tilt, the air thick with grief and revelation. The squad sat motionless, watching their commander—once untouchable, now tethered by the fragile breath of a child.
Li Jian closed the tin, slid it aside, and fell silent. His eyes remained on the sleeping girl, and nothing more was said.
Li carried Le Le in his arms as though she were made of porcelain, each step taken with the utmost care. The girl had already fallen into a deep sleep, her small head resting against his chest, her breath warm and even. He pushed open the door to the back room of the café, the hinges groaning softly, and laid her gently on the bed. The blanket was pulled over her little shoulders, and for a long moment he remained there, crouched beside her, watching the peace on her sleeping face. Her small hand clutched at the sleeve of his shirt, unwilling to let him go even in her dreams, and his fingers lingered on hers until they loosened. He brushed away a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek, his expression soft in a way it rarely was when others were watching. With a faint sigh, Li stood up, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him as he stepped back into the quiet café.
The others had already begun settling in as though the years apart had meant nothing. One had sprawled across the couch without a care, another leaned lazily against the wall, and the remaining two were squabbling halfheartedly over space on the floor. Their laughter was hushed, tempered by the hour, but it carried the same familiarity as it had in the old days. Li paused for a moment, watching them with that mix of irritation and reluctant fondness he had always carried for the group. "You're all impossible," he muttered, shaking his head. "Fine. The girls can take the bed in Le Le's room, and you two—" he gestured toward the men on the couch—"will just have to manage with that." His words were gruff, but there was no bite in them.
They exchanged amused looks, knowing he wouldn't have the heart to throw them out, and quickly agreed. It was as though they were back to younger days, when camaraderie and stubbornness were all they had. Soon after, their voices faded, and one by one they retired to their corners. The café, which had been alive with noise only hours before, settled into a hush. The wood creaked as it always did at night, cicadas sang faintly in the distance, and the air grew cooler as the hours passed.
Li, however, did not follow them into sleep. Instead, he brewed himself a cup of coffee and carried it outside, sitting at one of the small tables under the awning. The steam rose slowly into the night, curling in the pale light of the moon. He cradled the mug between his hands, his gaze drifting over the silent village streets. The rooftops shimmered faintly under silver light, the stone path glistened faintly with dew, and the whole world seemed caught in a moment of stillness. Alone, with only the hum of night insects for company, he allowed the heaviness of his thoughts to settle. So much had changed, and yet this place—the café, the street, even the cool mountain air—remained as it always had.
The sound of soft footsteps broke the spell. He did not turn immediately, though his ears caught the familiar rhythm before she even appeared. Xia lingered in the doorway for a breath, her figure outlined against the faint glow from inside, before she moved toward him and sat quietly at his side. For a while they said nothing, the silence stretching between them, filled with all the words neither had been ready to speak. It was not awkward, but heavy—like the air before a storm.
At last, her voice came, low and trembling, carrying the weight of years. "I missed you."
Li did not look at her straight away. He lifted the cup to his lips, sipped slowly, and exhaled a long breath as if the words had reached deep into his chest. "I know," he answered simply. His tone was calm, but beneath it there was something raw, unguarded. "I missed you too."
Xia's hands twisted together in her lap, her eyes lowered. The faint sheen of moisture at their edges caught the moonlight. "I was afraid," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "When she said she was your daughter, for a moment I thought—" She stopped, unable to finish, the confession hanging between them.
Li finally turned his head, studying her. There was sorrow in her face, but also the same fire he remembered, the stubbornness that had once challenged him at every turn. A faint, weary smile touched his lips. "That I had married? That I had moved on without you?" he asked softly.
Her silence was answer enough. She bit her lip, her chin trembling as she lowered her gaze further.
Li chuckled quietly, the sound short but genuine, though it carried an edge of pain. "That's why you slapped me," he said. "Not because of the years… but because you thought I had left you behind."
Xia's shoulders stiffened. She opened her mouth to argue, to deny it, but before she could, Li leaned back in his chair and interrupted with the same calm certainty he had always carried. "You don't have to say it. I understood the moment your hand struck my face."
For the first time since she'd sat down, Xia looked at him again. And though her eyes glistened, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, fragile but real. Li set down his empty cup, pushing it aside. He rose to his feet with quiet finality, his expression unreadable once more. "Enough for tonight," he murmured. "I'll go sleep now." Without waiting for her reply, he turned and disappeared into the dim café, leaving Xia alone with the night air, the sound of insects, and the echoes of words left unsaid.
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