The youth did not answer his question. He merely lowered his eyes to look at the unconscious Ye Xi in his arms, then gently set the child down and helped him lean against the cold blue-brick wall.
The child's back rested against the wall, his head tilted slightly to one side. His chest rose and fell softly with his steady breathing, making him look as though he were merely asleep.
Song Zhiyi's hand lingered on Ye Xi's shoulder for a moment. Only after confirming that the child was leaning securely and would not slip down did he straighten up.
At last, he turned around to face the young man directly.
Sunlight spilled down from the narrow strip of sky overhead, falling across his face and illuminating those unfamiliar features with utter clarity.
His contours were gentle, his features refined, and the corners of his brows and eyes still carried some of a youth's lingering immaturity. He bore not the slightest resemblance to the person in the young man's memories—though he had never once seen that person's face.
Not even once.
Whenever that person appeared before him, he always wore a veiled hat that reached his knees. Beneath its broad brim hung white gauze curtains, hiding every feature so thoroughly that only a vague silhouette could be discerned.
He only knew that person was taller and older than him, with a soft, low voice like an underground river flowing quietly through the deep night. He always spoke gently, never uttering a harsh word.
That person's fingers were long and cool. Whenever they fell upon the strings of a zither, the melodies that flowed with the rise and fall of his fingertips were beautiful and elegant. His aura was faint, like morning mist on the verge of dispersing—present, yet seemingly absent.
But