The breakfast table was laid neatly, as always, a delicate balance of elegance and routine. The maids had brought out congee, fruit, and side dishes before quietly retreating into the background, leaving the wide dining hall hushed except for the faint trickle of the koi pond outside the open windows.
Qing Yun sat at her usual spot, her back straight, movements precise as she lifted her spoon. Gu Ze Yan, across from her, studied her with a gaze that was both soft and unyielding. He usually filled these mornings with idle chatter about work, a project at Luminar, or a small anecdote from Chen Rui. But today, before she could even ask what was on his agenda, his voice cut across the silence.
"Don't make plans today," he said. His tone was casual, but there was a hidden lilt in it, something that sounded almost boyish. "Come with me."
Qing Yun looked up slowly, her brow lifting, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Where?"
He leaned back in his chair, lips curving, mischief dancing at the corner of his smile. "You'll see."
That smile made him look younger, like the Gu Ze Yan from years ago—less CEO, less untouchable man of power, more boy who had once held her hand under a Ferris wheel. Qing Yun lowered her gaze back to her bowl, stirring the congee quietly. She didn't argue. She didn't demand an explanation. She simply nodded, the faintest acknowledgment, and continued eating.
His grin widened. Sometimes, her silence was the sweetest agreement.
---
The chauffeur dropped them off near Liangcheng's riverside, not in front of a luxury mall or some high-end boutique, but at a place Qing Yun hadn't stepped into in years—the old book and antique market.
Stalls crowded the narrow lanes, their canvas roofs flapping gently in the morning breeze. The air smelled of rain-soaked paper, musty ink, and roasted chestnuts from a vendor nearby. Second-hand books leaned against each other in precarious towers, scrolls unfurled to display faded calligraphy, handwritten notes stacked in wooden crates. There was nothing glossy or polished here, just history, fingerprints of countless hands, lives tucked between yellowing pages.
Qing Yun stopped at the entrance, her gaze flickering. Something soft passed through her expression, almost too fleeting to notice. Then she stepped forward, drawn as if by instinct.
Ze Yan followed a pace behind, his tall frame cutting easily through the crowd, but his eyes never left her.
She crouched by a stall stacked high with English paperbacks, her fingertips gliding over cracked spines. She opened one carefully, flipping to the margin where notes had been scribbled in a precise, slanted hand. Her lips curved faintly—not into a smile, but into something gentler, more alive. When the vendor offered her a discount, she shook her head politely.
"It's worth the price," she said simply.
Ze Yan, watching from behind, smirked. He discreetly stepped to the side, slipped the vendor a card, and whispered instructions. By the time Qing Yun had moved on, half the stall was already paid for, with orders to have everything delivered to his mansion.
It was indulgent, childish even. But seeing her linger on those books—it felt priceless.
---
They wandered deeper into the maze until Qing Yun's steps slowed before a small, unassuming studio wedged between two larger stalls. Inside, the air changed. It was cooler, scented faintly of sandalwood and old wood polish. Shelves lined the walls, holding restored scrolls, repaired porcelain vases, ancient furniture brought back to quiet dignity.
At the center sat an old man, bent slightly with age, his gray hair tied neatly. He worked over a porcelain vase, brush in hand, each stroke so delicate it seemed he breathed with it. His expression was serene, his eyes steady.
Qing Yun, drawn, took a step closer, her gaze fixed. She didn't speak, didn't move beyond the threshold, afraid to disturb.
The old man looked up, his eyes sharp yet kind. Instead of waving her away, he gestured with his chin. "Come closer, if you want to watch."
Qing Yun hesitated. Then, silently, she obeyed.
She stood beside the worktable, watching each deliberate motion. He layered pigment onto a crack so finely it was almost invisible. Her breath slowed to match the rhythm, her eyes following every sweep of the brush.
After a while, he glanced at her again and unexpectedly held out the brush. "Here. Try."
Her eyes widened. She shook her head quickly. "No. I can't. This is too valuable—I'll ruin it."
He chuckled softly, amusement crinkling his eyes. "This one isn't worth much. Don't worry."
Hesitantly, Qing Yun reached for the brush. She held it the way he had, mimicking his grip. She dipped it in the paint, took a breath, and carefully followed the line of a crack. Her hand was steady, precise, each movement cautious yet natural. When she finished, she exhaled slowly, almost surprised at herself.
The old man studied her face for a moment, then smiled knowingly. "I knew it."
Qing Yun blinked. "Knew what?"
"You have the look," he said simply. "Calm, patient, deliberate. That's what a restorer needs most. It's not just skill. It's presence. Peace. A steady hand that carries no rush. Good masters have the same aura as you do now."
Her lips parted, but she found no words.
"If you ever want to learn," he added, tone still casual, as though it were no more than offering tea, "tell me. I can help you find the right path."
Qing Yun stared at him, then at the vase, then lowered the brush back onto the table. She bowed slightly, murmured thanks, and stepped back.
When they left, her expression was unreadable, but her steps lingered. For the first time in a long time, Ze Yan saw something flicker behind her eyes—a spark, faint, but real.
And his heart leapt.
---
Instead of heading for a luxury restaurant as he usually did, Ze Yan led her toward the riverside stalls. Rain had begun to drizzle, pattering against the plastic tarp roofs. The air was thick with the smell of frying oil, sizzling skewers, broth bubbling in giant pots.
"Street food?" Qing Yun asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Why not?" His grin was easy, boyish again.
They sat side by side on plastic stools, bowls of hot noodles steaming before them. Around them, office workers laughed over beer, children ran between tables, vendors shouted orders. It was noisy, smoky, cramped. But Ze Yan didn't care. He ate with chopsticks like any other man, happy just to be there beside her.
Qing Yun ate quietly, her movements neat. Oil smoke clung to her hair, steam fogged her glasses briefly, but she didn't complain. Her face softened in the simple environment.
When a drop of broth slipped near her lip, Ze Yan instinctively leaned forward, napkin in hand, wiping it away. His touch was gentle, almost reverent.
Qing Yun didn't flinch. She didn't push him away. She simply continued eating, as though his intimacy was the most natural thing in the world.
For Ze Yan, the moment was more exquisite than any banquet. He could have spent millions on chandeliers and champagne, but nothing compared to sitting on a cheap plastic stool, oil smoke rising, her presence beside him.
---
By the time they walked back to the car, umbrellas shielding them from the drizzle, Qing Yun's silence was different. She wasn't withdrawn—it was thoughtful. Her gaze lingered on the river, on the old stalls behind them, on the faint memory of the porcelain brush in her hand.
Ze Yan didn't push. He walked beside her, carrying the umbrella, content to guard the quiet.
When he glanced at her, he saw it clearly—the faintest shimmer of life had returned to her eyes. Not Sunny's bright radiance, but Lin Qing Yun's quiet spark.
And in his heart, he made a vow:
If this is the flame that can bring her back… I'll do anything to keep it alive.