By March, Guangjing finally loosened its winter grip.
The riverbank began to soften with color—pale buds swelling into full blossoms, their petals trembling in the breeze. Streets once cold and gray now glowed with pink and white, like clouds had drifted down to rest in the branches.
Students spread picnic mats under the trees. Couples strolled hand in hand, cameras flashed, vendors sold candied hawthorns sticky with syrup.
Qing Yun walked among them in a light beige coat, notebook tucked under her arm. She moved slowly, letting the blossoms brush against her sleeves, her eyes calm but bright.
She stopped at one tree, opened her notebook, and began sketching. The graphite lines came alive beneath her fingers: branches, petals, the curve of a breeze.
A shadow fell across the page.
"You're drawing again."
She looked up. Gu Ze Yan stood there, dressed simply in a dark coat, his expression as steady as ever, but his gaze softer than the season's light.
"You should be in Liangcheng," she murmured.
"I should," he agreed. His lips curved faintly. "But I'd rather be here."
Her fingers paused on the page. "You always say that."
"And it's always true."
---
They walked together beneath the trees, petals falling into their hair, clinging to their coats.
At a small clearing, Ze Yan peeled an orange carefully, each strip of rind curling away like ribbon. He placed a slice gently into her palm.
Qing Yun popped it into her mouth, citrus sharp and sweet, while her pencil scratched a few more strokes.
"Why are you drawing?" he asked.
"Because spring only lasts a moment," she replied softly. "I don't want to forget this."
He watched her a long time, eyes unreadable, before murmuring, "Then I'll make sure you see every season."
Her lips trembled, but she lowered her gaze quickly, hiding behind the blossoms as her cheeks warmed.
---
Other people noticed them. A tall man walking close to a serene woman, carrying her bag, brushing petals from her shoulder.
Phones rose discreetly, capturing snapshots. By nightfall, those photos would swirl across social feeds under hashtags: #CherryBlossomCouple #FairytaleLoveStory.
The Cinderella tale refused to die.
---
At her program, Qing Yun's instructors praised her precision more often. Her classmates leaned on her quiet presence, drawn to her calm like a harbor. She found herself smiling when they teased her, even laughing when they pulled her into group photos.
Her life had not become loud, but it had gained texture, color, and air. For the first time in years, she felt she was living rather than just existing.
---
But not everyone welcomed it.
In her suite across the city, Jiang Yi Rong scrolled her phone. Her manicured finger stilled on a photo of Ze Yan bending toward Qing Yun under blossoms, their shoulders brushing as though no one else existed.
The glass in her hand tilted, red wine trembling.
"They flaunt it," she hissed. "As if the world belongs to them."
Her assistant kept silent, but the headlines were clear: "Gu Ze Yan's Love Blossoms in Spring" … "Cinderella's Fairytale Confirmed."
Yi Rong's smile sharpened, cold and elegant. "If the world insists on believing in fairytales, let's remind them what happens after midnight. Cinderella turns back to ashes."
On her desk, a folder lay open—reports, photos, traces of a past Qing Yun thought buried.
Yi Rong closed it with a snap. "She won't stay untouchable for long."
---
One evening in April, Qing Yun returned home from class, the faint perfume of blossoms still clinging to her hair. She set her notebook on the desk, poured herself tea, and sat by the window where petals drifted against glass.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She frowned but opened it.
A photo appeared.
Her younger self, still in high school, stood beside Xu Wei Ran on a stage. Between them sat a gleaming trophy—their prize for winning an academy competition. She smiled faintly in the picture, and he leaned just close enough that their shoulders touched, his hand brushing hers as they held the award together.
It was innocent. Two teenagers proud of a victory. But the comfort between them was obvious.
Beneath the photo, a single line of text glowed like a strike of cold fire:
"Familiar with Xu Wei Ran too? Always surrounded by famous men, aren't you?"
Her grip on the phone tightened, knuckles paling. She could already hear the chorus of speculation: that she was never the quiet, pure Cinderella, that she had always been chasing, always clinging to men above her reach.
Her chest constricted. The petals outside blurred into a storm of white.
For the first time in weeks, the calm she had carefully built wavered.