As Zhang Qingxuan pushed open the shop door to leave,
he was so dazed that he stumbled on his way out and nearly fell.
Only by catching the doorframe did he steady himself.
The early morning sunlight at the mouth of the alley made him squint.
He glanced back into the shop. Zhang Siyu was still standing where she had been. She had not offered to go home with him.
The Weasel Old Man had already left, but the cup of cold tea was still on the table.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something to Zhang Siyu.
But nothing came out. He merely nodded gently, then turned and left.
He had killed countless monsters in his lifetime. Some had deserved to die; others had not.
He had never asked whether those monsters had families waiting for them to come home. All he remembered was that A Ning was dead.
He had always believed monsters had killed her, that he could avenge her as long as he killed every monster that harmed people.
But the truth was that he had never been the victim. A Ning had.
She had borne everything alone.
She had traded her life for his. Even in death, she had protected the last shred of trust in monsters in Siyu's heart. She had made the Weasel Old Man keep the secret, made Zhang Qingxuan hate the wrong person, made him live inside a carefully woven lie, made him believe he was the victim.
He was not. He was the one being protected. She had protected him to the very end.
Zhang Siyu stood in the doorway, watching her father's retreating figure.
She did not follow him.
She knew her father needed time: time to digest a truth buried for over twenty years, time to accept