Many Days Later
The festival was dying.
The fires had burned low, casting long orange shadows across the clearing. The dancers had staggered off to their huts, too exhausted to walk straight. The drums had fallen silent an hour ago, and someone had forgotten to put away the leftover meat, which meant the snake twins were circling the tables like opportunistic vultures.
Hóng Yè stood at the edge of the visitors' huts, his hands shoved into his pockets, his tail tucked tight against his legs.
He did not want to say goodbye.
He had been telling himself all evening that it was fine. Lì Jìng was from the southern marshes. She had a home there. A family. A life that did not involve him.
She was going to leave.
And he was going to stand here and watch her go, and then he was going to walk back to his father's hut and pretend that his chest did not feel like someone had scooped out everything soft and left only the sharp, jagged edges.
" You are doing the face again," Lì Jìng said.
