SES Chapter 63 Part 1

Chapter 63 – Epilogue

The fishing village quieted early. The moment she stepped outside, it was pitch black—so dark she couldn’t see a thing. She stumbled and nearly bumped into Luo Ren.

Luo Ren took her hand and said, “Careful.”

He led her through the village, past the low, squat homes of the fishermen. The air smelled of years-old damp wood. Somewhere in the shadows, a dog was tied up. It seemed to sense intruders—fur bristling in the dark, rising to its feet as if preparing for battle.

Luo Ren pulled her behind him, crouched slightly, and let out a low, threatening growl. Immediately, the dog’s fierce stance crumbled. It skittered back into the shadows and buried its head like an ostrich pretending to disappear.

Mu Dai pleaded with Luo Ren, “Teach me how to do that.”

He replied, “What’s there to learn? That’s nothing to be proud of.”

Then he walked on ahead. Mu Dai sighed, a little disappointed, and refused to move.

Luo Ren returned and said, “Alright, how about this—if you can stand perfectly still for five minutes, without blinking, I’ll teach you.”

Mu Dai challenged him with a look. “Then start timing.”

Did he think that would be hard for her? Had he forgotten she’d practiced martial arts for eight years? Her master used to punish her by making her stand motionless—at least eight or ten times—and it was far more difficult than this. Sometimes she had to balance a small incense burner on her head. The ash would burn down slowly, and she’d stand so still that even a long trail of ash wouldn’t fall.

As for not blinking? Easy. Instead of trying to keep her eyes open, she’d just close them.

That still counted as “not blinking,” right?

A small, smug smile curled on her lips as she slowly shut her eyes.

Without sight, her other senses sharpened. The night was gentle and quiet. The air was damp and heavy with moisture. A few stray strands of hair stuck to her cheek, tickling slightly. The breeze carried a faintly salty, fishy scent—the smell of the sea.

This sea had been here long before the village, long before people came.

Even the wooden houses weren’t entirely quiet. Sometimes, there were faint creaks of timber shifting, the soft sounds of people turning in their sleep, or murmured conversations between couples, low and indistinct.

And Luo Ren was timing her. He had turned on the stopwatch, complete with a ticking sound. Tick-tock, tick-tock, urgent and relentless. She didn’t like that sound. It made life feel like it was always rushing—panting, exhausted, unable to pause.

She preferred slowness.

Like when a farmer lifts the wooden lid off a steamer, and thick white steam slowly curls through the house, mingling with the snowy scene outside and the icicles hanging from the eaves.

Like a mule with a bell around its neck, trotting past the front door—its jingling echoing long after it’s gone.

Like embroidering a sachet for a lover. The bamboo frame stretches the cloth tight, and a silver needle pulls silk thread slowly, lovingly—creating something delicate and enduring, with no visible end.

Luo Ren’s voice came from afar. “Mu Dai, I’m leaving now. Leaving you here alone. I’m going!”

His voice faded with distance.

She remained still.

He added, “Mu Dai, that dog is walking toward you. It’s watching you. Its mouth is open. It’s about to bite you!”

Still, she didn’t move. The soft darkness painted gentle shadows on her face—tracing her lashes, her nose bridge, the corners of her lips. No artist could capture such fine detail.

And then—without warning—Luo Ren hugged her.

She could feel him: the familiar scent, the strength of his arms, the nearness of the ticking stopwatch. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

He slowly leaned in, his breath brushing her brow, her cheeks, then her lips.

Mu Dai thought: I could move now. I could open my eyes and laugh, saying, “I’m done playing.” I could cry out in mock indignation, “That’s cheating!”

But she didn’t move. She didn’t want to. A tiny voice in her heart chirped: You want this. You’re willing.

Luo Ren kissed her.

Just how she liked it—soft and slow, then gradually deepening with irresistible force.

The ticking stopped. Maybe the stopwatch paused, or maybe she just couldn’t hear anything anymore.

If souls were real, then in this moment, hers must have unraveled into delicate strands, drifting endlessly upward, weightless, lulled by an invisible melody, searching for a place to rest but finding none.

When Luo Ren finally let go, everything around them was hushed. Even the sea was eerily still, its gentle waves like a lover’s long sigh.

Luo Ren asked, “Still want to go to the shore?”

She didn’t. She wanted to stay right here, in this cramped space, surrounded by low wooden rooftops, the damp air, and a dog—either asleep or silently witnessing everything from the shadows.

She wanted to stay just a little longer. She’d remember this place for the rest of her life.

Luo Ren smiled and gently embraced her. Her face flushed as she leaned into his chest, listening to his steady, powerful heartbeat.

Luo Ren whispered, “My girl.”

I’ve waited so long for you, my girl—
Through mountains and swamps, through forests thick with mosquitoes, I dreamed of you over and over. You, barefoot, walking through icy riverbanks and dark woods, your eyes gentle as if soaked in moonlight.

I’ve waited so long.

Back at the inn, everything was quiet. Yan Hongsha and the others were already asleep. Mu Dai held her breath, carefully climbed into bed, and pulled up the covers.

The pillow was soft and comfortable. Suddenly, she remembered that lullaby Luo Ren had mentioned once:

“Pillow, oh pillow, don’t say a thing. That sweet person and I—our secret, don’t tell a soul…”

Yes, that’s right. She buried her face into the pillow, murmuring as if to herself—or the pillow—“Don’t tell. Don’t tell anyone.”

But pillows aren’t trustworthy. Lying beneath your head, who knows if they might sneak a peek into your secrets? Now she truly understood the sweet anxiety lovers feel:

Don’t tell. Don’t tell anyone.