When they left the lord's manor, the sun had already dipped westward. Light filtered through the clouds and warmed their backs, thinning the heavy pressure that had filled the manor's halls.
Bihua walked the now-sparser streets with Layne in tow. Her pace was unhurried, yet every step felt as heavy as if an entire city wall pressed upon her. The wind tugged at her hem; she seemed not to notice, only tightened her veil and kept the boy close to her side.
Layne said little, resigned to the road back. Only now, walking it at their own speed, did they feel how vast Qingzhou was—its avenues many times the breadth of quiet Youzhen.
At a lane corner, a peddler counted the day's leftovers and hummed under his breath. A porter passed with water buckets; the rims thudded against the pole—tok, tok—like a heartbeat.
"Mom… are we going back to the inn?" Layne whispered.
Bihua only nodded.
There was nothing to say. The token against her chest was cold through the cloth—an icy reminder: this was no dream.
When they reached the inn, the hostess was dozing behind the counter. She roused, glanced at them, and asked nothing. Bihua led Layne upstairs without buying food.
Only in their room did she loosen the veil and exhale.
Layne sat at the table, staring at her, lips parting then closing again.
"Tomorrow, after noon," Bihua said softly, "we'll go to the prison and see your father. It may be… a farewell."
"Will he… get hot food?" Layne asked.
She stroked his hair. "That's why we'll bring what he likes. Do you remember his favorites?"
Layne nodded, counting on his fingers. "Soy-braised beef, scallion rolls, and when he drinks clear wine he likes shredded cucumber… and I promised to bring him snacks from Qingzhou—"
His mouth trembled; his eyes reddened as he fought not to cry.
"Mm," she murmured, pulling him into her arms, patting his back. The small body shuddered, and a thin whimper escaped him. Her shoulder grew damp.
When he had steadied, Bihua went downstairs, paid the hostess for a food box and dishes to be prepared by morning, and asked especially for local treats from Qingzhou. Returning, she found Layne turning the token from Xuanhu over in his hands. She took it; it was still cold as ice.
Night fell at last. By lamplight, mother and son nibbled the cakes they'd brought from home. What once brought joy now stuck in their throats.
The next day after noon, the sun burned hotter. They ate a few hurried bites, took up the packed food box, asked directions, and walked to the great prison north of the Qingzhou tribunal.
Barriers stood before the gate. Armored soldiers lined the entry; the black doors admitted not a sliver of light. Even drawing near felt colder by degrees.
"Keep back—restricted ground!" two soldiers barked, halberds crossing.
Bihua drew Layne behind her. "We're here to visit. We have a token." She brought out the small green badge and offered it in both hands.
The guard's frown shifted to wary focus. "Wait here. The captain needs to confirm this."
A man in armor, early thirties, strode up with sweat sheening his brow. He took the token, stared a breath, as if feeling something through it. His face changed. He cupped his hands and said, more respectful now, "Lord Xuanhu's token. Understood."
He turned. "Let them through. Follow full entry rules—open and inspect the food box, no blades or notes. Summon a matron to search them."
They unwrapped, lifted lids, prodded and pierced with a silver pin; even the wine was tested. The matron checked Bihua and Layne's belts and pouches, then nodded to the captain.
Keeping the token, he added under his breath, "There are many eyes and loose tongues inside. Don't stay too long—don't make it hard on me, or on Lord Xuanhu."
Bihua smoothed her clothes, murmured assent, and led Layne through the opening gate.
Within, the light went dim. The daylight outside seemed a mirage, severed by the closing door. A jailer waited just beyond; it was so quiet their own breathing echoed.
They walked on—as if into a farewell set long ago.
The passage was narrow and damp. Torches burned at intervals; their flames threw wavering shadows on the walls. The smell of mold and old blood clung to the air. Ahead, the jailer strode steadily, one hand on his sword, the other jangling a ring of keys.
"Don't look. Don't speak. Keep moving," he muttered without turning.
Bihua lowered her head and shielded Layne as they went.
They passed into a small hall. Doors lined both sides. From within came raspy whispers, nails scratching stone, coughs and sighs. Eyes peered out through slots, quiet and predatory.
"Yo— a woman?" a hoarse voice leered. "Pretty. Smells good…"
"Little lady, come to brother! Chief! Send her in—we'll share—"
"Look at that figure—bringing a kid? Which bastard lucked into a wife like that?"
The jeers swelled. Few women came here; the taunts and wolf-whistles came in waves.
Bihua trembled but did not lift her head, only drew Layne still closer.
"Shut it!" the jailer roared, smashing his blade against the bars. Sparks spat across the stone. The cells fell silent; shadows slunk back into corners. Yet the words felt hammered into Bihua's ears.
She quickened her pace.
At last they reached a quieter corridor with only a few iron doors. Breath rasped softly behind them.
The jailer stopped at one door—not with the ring of keys, but a small brass key from his breast. The lock clicked; cold air breathed out.
"Go in. He's there."
Bihua drew a breath and stepped through with Layne.
The cell was small. No stone bed—only rotting straw, black with damp, stinking of decay. Light came from a single opening high above, a narrow square through which a thread of sun fell—a vent and a window both.
In that pale light sat a figure with his back to them. The door's creak did not move him, but her voice did.
"Lai Su," she called.
He rose slowly and turned, step by step, into the light.
He had grown thin; his cheeks were hollowed, but his eyes were still calm and clear. His prison clothes were clean, and no wound showed on the skin.
She exhaled—just a little.
The warmth had gone from his gaze. He said nothing at first, only looked at her for a long moment, then spoke softly:
"Bihua. You came."
She knelt before him, set the food box on the ground, and began clearing a patch amid the straw with shaking hands. Startled insects skittered away. Stubbornly, she kept at it until stone showed through.
"Eat something," she said, voice tight, fingers trembling.
Lai Su glanced at the door and asked the jailer, "Brother officer, may a criminal speak with his family alone?"
The jailer frowned, looked from kneeling wife to stunned child, and sighed. "A cup of tea's time. I'll be outside."
The door closed with a groan.
Silence returned.
At last Bihua lifted her eyes and burst out, "How could you be so foolish? You knew—they would never spare you, and still—"
Her words broke. Tears fell like snapped pearls. Lips white, body shaking, she thrust the bowl toward him as she sobbed: "You said—we'd take Layne south to see the sea! You said when he grew up you'd teach him to do what he loves, to be an honest man—you said you wouldn't leave me. Liar! You lied!"
Layne said nothing, only stared, biting his lip, eyes reddening.
Lai Su did not rush to explain. He sat, opened the box, and spoke as gently as ever. "I never meant to deceive you."
"There are some roads—step wrong once, and turning back is no simple atonement."
He sipped the wine, raised his eyes. "Without you, I would not have come this far. But without coming this far, I would never have had you."
"I do not regret it. Bihua, if we cannot grow old together, then let these ten years be a single dream. The dream is over. It is time to wake."
She shook her head, weeping into her hands.
Layne stirred at last and edged forward. "Dad… did they hit you?"
Lai Su smiled—the same smile from that rainy night long ago when he cradled a babbling toddler and drank with his wife. "No. Layne, you must grow up."
He ruffled the boy's hair, then looked to Bihua. "Take him away. Live somewhere else. At the bottom of your bundle I tucked a few silver ingots—did you find them?"
He paused, the words catching, blinking hard to hold back tears. "Go north if you must. Find a small town. Don't let Layne leave his studies. You'll bear the weight—household, child. I'm sorry."
Bihua nodded through clenched teeth.
"I still don't know what wish Layne wrote for the lantern festival… No, don't tell me. It won't come true if you say it. Ah—everything's too hurried."
He ate little—just a few bites—and a few sips of wine. Most of the time was gone when the jailer called softly from outside.
Lai Su covered the bowl and stood, straightening his robe. "Thank you for coming."
He hesitated, then said to Bihua, warm as ever, "The day after tomorrow—don't bring Layne to Zhengyang Gate."
She pressed a hand to her mouth, shoulders heaving. At his words, she shook her head furiously; the tears burst like a breached river.
Layne flung himself at his father's legs. "Don't go—don't die—please!"
Lai Su lifted him, pressed his brow to the boy's hair. "Good child. Listen to your mother. Grow well. Protect her for me."
"Your father… will always love you."
The door opened. Time was up.
Torchlight wavered across the cell. In the mottled glow, the man smiled and handed his son back to his wife. Step by step, he returned to the corner and sat.
"Go," he said softly.
Bihua sobbed, dragging the struggling Layne, looking back at every step as she retreated.
The door closed again, slow as iron fate.
Behind it, his figure sank into the quiet dark.
On the breath of the closing door, it seemed a sigh drifted out:
Farewell, my love.