The next morning was quiet — too quiet.
Mihir sat beneath the veranda, his scroll untouched. His thoughts weren't with the words.
They were on Zhang Zheng.The way moonlight softened him.The way his breath had nearly matched Mihir's.The way one touch had lingered longer than it should.
He barely noticed the soft steps approaching until the air shifted.
"You seem comfortable, Master Mihir."
That voice.
Like lacquered wood cracking.
Mihir looked up.
The Stepmother.
Tall, proud, dressed in silk that whispered danger. His features were flawless — the kind carved into temple walls. Sharp-jawed, narrow-eyed, mouth always a second away from a smirk. Not cruel — never overt — but never kind either.
And behind the eyes: calculation.
His voice was sweet. His presence, sour.
"I am a guest," Mihir replied carefully.
The man stepped closer. "Indeed. A guest in a house with many broken things."
A pause.
"I hope," the stepmother continued, "you won't pick up any of them."
Their eyes met.A smile — polite, paper-thin.A knife held under silk.
Before Mihir could reply, he heard footsteps.
A quiet rhythm. Like a dance no one taught.
He turned.
And there — at the edge of the peach orchard — stood a boy.
Maybe seven. Hair too long. Robe mismatched. Hands twitching near his chest, like he was holding something invisible.
He didn't speak. Just stared at Mihir. Eyes wide. Sharp. Different.
The stepmother sighed, annoyed.
"Ah. The second one."
Mihir stood slowly. "He's Zhang's son?"
"Yes. A burden, really. He can't speak well."
Mihir's jaw tightened. "He's...?"
"Mad, of course." The stepmother's voice was casual. "Zheng insists he's not. He protects him. Like a pet."
Mihir looked at the boy.
He wasn't mad.
He was watching.
With the kind of focus only those with too much inside their heads can have.
Mihir stepped forward, slow.
The boy flinched — but didn't run.
"Can I sit with you?" Mihir asked, softly.
The boy tilted his head. Didn't answer. But he didn't move away either.
Mihir sat beside him on the grass.
The stepmother tsked. "Careful, Master Mihir. Kindness often returns with claws."
Mihir ignored him.
After a moment, the boy reached into his sleeve — awkwardly, fidgety — and pulled out a folded origami bird. Yellow. A little crushed. He placed it in Mihir's palm, then ran.
Mihir blinked.
The stepmother chuckled.
"He's been making those for years. No idea where he learned it. Perhaps some fever dream."
But Mihir wasn't listening.
He looked down at the bird.
On its wing, in careful messy ink, was a character:
"Zheng."