Morning light had only just filtered through the window paper when Chen Wuya's fingers twitched lightly against the edge of the bed. He was not fully awake, his consciousness still sunk in some hazy dream, but his left palm felt as though something were pressing down on it, swollen with a dull ache. Without opening his eyes, he slowly drew his hand back and tucked it deep beneath the covers.
A wind chime rang once outside, soft as air stirred by a bird's wing brushing against it.
Only then did he slowly prop himself up, moving carefully as though afraid of disturbing some pain within him that had yet to settle. He remembered little of what happened after returning to the room last night. He only vaguely recalled Bai Zhi bringing him a bowl of medicine, saying nothing as she wound strips of cloth around his left hand, layer by layer, tight and secure. He had looked down once—the dark-red mark had already shrunk back to the roots of his fingers, like an insect burrowing into a crack in the sand as the tide receded.
The door creaked open. Bai Zhi returned from the well carrying a wooden bucket, droplets running from its rim and striking several dark circles onto the ground before the threshold. She glanced at him, her gaze lingering briefly on his left hand before moving away as she went to light the fire and make breakfast.
"Awake?" she asked.
"Mm." He answered as he got out of bed and put on his shoes. "Is the dew heavy outside?"
"Everything's soaked. Even the edges of the vegetable beds are damp."
He nodded and went to sit at the table. His outer robe from last night lay there, a small patch of dried brown staining one cuff. He