💛🐉||Qing Dynasty||🐉💛

Dawn barely filtered through the delicate silk screens of the bedroom. The air was still, warm, and the only sound was the soft creaking of the old wood. Qing opened his eyes much earlier than usual. The dim light reached him, but he didn't seek it out. His gaze remained fixed on a point on the screen opposite the bed, as if a void there opened up, calling to him voicelessly. His lips trembled slightly, dry, and his slender fingers gripped the sheet as if it held an anchor, a point of security to sustain him. He wanted to move, but the weight of memories held him back. A pang shot through his chest, and he hugged himself, arching his back, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath. The silence of the room seemed too vast, too similar to those days when everything was falling apart. He didn't know how long he had been like that, his eyes moist, staring into nothingness. All he knew was that he was waiting. He was waiting for the sound of familiar footsteps, the firm voice that would call him "father," the presence that had calmed his storms the night before.

The sound of the door sliding on its wooden tracks broke the silence of the room. Qing tensed immediately, her breath caught, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket, the fine hairs on her body gently prickling; everything in the air felt tense. The fear that it was someone else—a stranger, a bandit, an invader, someone who would hurt her, someone she wouldn't understand—came through her like a shiver... but whoever entered was someone else.

Qing slowly raised his gaze, and the emptiness in his eyes filled with light. Air rushed back into his lungs, as if he had been holding his breath for too long. His chest relaxed, and a trembling sigh escaped his lips. He was not a stranger, nor an invader. He was China. He was her son.

"It's you…"

She murmured, almost in a whisper, her voice breaking with relief, her fingers trembling.