Rosinante

Early the next morning, Kexi and Cioccolata met Yaoyue outside the Wavecrest Inn.

She clearly hadn't slept well, and faint bluish circles shadowed her eyes, but she was in good spirits. Clutching the pendant in her hand, she gave them a bright smile when she saw them.

Cioccolata handed her the reconstructed score she had put together the night before. Yaoyue held the pages in her hands, her fingertips trembling slightly, and thanked her solemnly.

The three set off once more along the dirt road to the old district.

The morning light was clearer than it had been the day before, and the outlines of distant mountains appeared and vanished in the thin mist.

Passing through the gap in the wild rose wall, they saw the little ivy-covered stone cottage come into view again.

A dark red figure was already waiting there.

Christopher leaned beside the old rocking chair outside the cottage, playing with a wild rose petal.

When he saw the three of them, he inclined his body slightly. Beneath his mask, his lips curved in that same gentle yet distant smile, and his voice carried just the right amount of surprise. "What a coincidence. I thought the weather was nice today, so I came to try my luck again. I didn't expect you to have the same idea."

Kexi raised an eyebrow.

The road from Egla Town to the old district was not a short one.

Christopher had arrived before them. That meant he had set out before dawn.

Would a traveler they had met by chance really take such an interest in an old poet he had never met?

He didn't say it aloud, but his gaze lingered on Christopher's mask for an extra second.

Christopher seemed to notice his gaze. He turned his head and smiled at him, then turned naturally to Yaoyue. "Miss, did you rest well last night?"

Yaoyue nodded, but her gaze had already passed over him to the cottage's tightly shut wooden door.

It was as quiet and silent as it had been yesterday, but the cup of tea was gone.

In its place on the stone steps lay a freshly picked bunch of wild roses, morning dew still clinging to the petals.

Someone had been here.

Or rather, someone had come back.

Cioccolata was the first to notice the detail.

She crouched down and touched a droplet on a rose petal with her fingertip, then looked up and met Kexi's gaze. Neither of them spoke.

Christopher saw the flowers too, but showed no surprise. He simply stood quietly to one side, his hands behind his back, like a patient observer.

Yaoyue stepped forward, took a deep breath, and raised her hand to knock on the door.

As on the previous day, there was no answer.

She knocked three more times, harder than yesterday. Her knuckles rapped sharply and rapidly against the old wooden boards, the sound especially clear in the stillness of the morning.

Then slow, shuffling footsteps came from inside.

One step, two steps, three steps.

The footsteps stopped behind the door.

The wooden door creaked open.

An old man stood inside.

He was thin and slightly hunched, wrapped in an old gray robe washed pale, with bony collarbones visible at the neckline.

His white hair was neatly combed and loosely tied back. A few stray locks hung beside his ears, swaying gently in the morning breeze.

His face was scored by the years, its wrinkles as deep as if carved with a knife. Yet his eyes seemed entirely at odds with his age: clear and warm, with a composure and serenity found only in someone who had seen too much of life. They were like amber washed by time, light shining through their cloudiness.

He looked at the four young people standing outside, his gaze pausing on each face for a moment, then gave them a somewhat puzzled but kindly smile.

"So early. Have you come to see this old man about something?"

Yaoyue stood where she was, her lips moving, but she couldn't get a word out.

She had imagined this moment countless times. On the road, in her dreams, in every stranger she had passed.

She had thought she would have so much to say, that she would pass on her mother's dying wishes word for word, bow deeply, and return the pendant with both hands.

But now that she stood before Rosinante, the wind had blown all her lines away, leaving only the warmth welling up uncontrollably in her eyes.

She opened her mouth several times, but in the end, she merely held out a trembling hand and opened her palm.

The musical-note pendant lay quietly in her sweat-dampened palm, its copper surface glowing softly in the morning light.

"Mr. Rosinante," she said, her voice shaking badly, yet she stressed every word, as though afraid the wind might scatter them. "My name is Yaoyue. I come from Yuezhou in Huanglong.

"My mother asked me to... thank you.

"Fifty years ago, you saved a young woman from a foreign land on the streets of Ragunna.

"That young woman later returned home, married, had a child, and lived out her life.

"The greatest regret of her life was that she never got to thank you in person."

The old man froze.

He lowered his head, his gaze resting on the pendant, and remained motionless for a long time.

The morning breeze passed through the rose wall, stirring the white hair on his forehead and the tassel of the pendant in Yaoyue's palm.

Then he slowly reached out and took the pendant, his movements extraordinarily gentle, as though he were holding a fragile feather.

He turned the pendant over and looked at the tiny inscription inside. His lips moved silently, as though he were reading something to himself.

"The girl from Yuezhou." His voice was aged and hoarse, yet unexpectedly clear, as though he were drawing the words out little by little from the depths of a distant memory.

He raised his head and looked at Yaoyue. Something flickered in his clouded eyes, like an old lamp lit anew.

"You look very much like her. Especially your eyes."

Yaoyue could no longer hold back.

She didn't cry out, but tears were already streaming silently down her face.

She bowed deeply, her voice choked but every word clear. "Mother said that song gave her the courage to go on living.

"She remembered it all her life and sang it all her life. Beside my cradle, on her sickbed, and on the last day of her life.

"She passed away listening to that song. So I wanted to come and see you on her behalf, and thank you in person for her-thank you, Mr. Rosinante."

Rosinante was silent for a long time.

Then he smiled. It was a very faint smile, as though he had set down something he had carried for a long time, or had finally received a reply fifty years overdue.

He stepped forward, reached out a thin hand, and gently patted Yaoyue on the shoulder.

"Fifty years, and the song is still being sung, and people are still coming." His voice was soft, as though he were talking to himself, or perhaps to an old friend far away. "That's probably what a bard most wants to hear."

He raised his head, his gaze passing over Yaoyue to Cioccolata and Kexi behind her, before finally settling on Christopher.

His gaze lingered for a moment on Christopher's mask. He said nothing, merely nodded slightly, then turned and slowly made his way into the cottage with his cane.

"Come in, all of you. The house is small, but there's enough tea." He glanced back, a playful smile appearing on his lips. For an instant, a glimmer of the carefree poet from fifty years ago seemed to flash in the depths of his wrinkles. "This shabby place of mine hasn't had so many guests in years."