An Immortal Love

Admonition

Yijun tosses the last mound of soil into the grave, the soft thud marking the finality of his work. He leans on the shovel, its worn handle rough beneath his palms, and wipes the sweat from his brow with a dirt-streaked sleeve. The acrid scent of smoke mingles with the faint sweetness of burnt paper money, still hanging in the air from the rituals. Around him, the sounds of mourning fade, leaving a haunting silence.

A warm hand touches his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns to see an old man, his weathered face framed by crinkles of age, eyes kind and steady. The man pats his back, a silent acknowledgment of the work Yijun has done.

Yijun sighs deeply, planting the shovel in the earth as he rests his hands on its handle. His gaze drifts upward to the sky, now a serene expanse of blue, with clouds lazily floating as if mocking the turmoil of just a week ago. The heavens show no trace of the storm that tore this village apart.

It has been a week since the dragon left, leaving ruins in his wake. Yijun stayed behind, helping the villagers return to bury their dead and piece together their lives. The first few days were harrowing—the wails of families discovering their loved ones' remains cut through the air like a blade. Yet as time passed, grief softened into quiet resilience, and life began to inch forward. He's made friends among the villagers, his empathy earning him their trust and gratitude.

But none of them can mend the hollow ache inside him.

The dragon's presence had been overwhelming—his mere proximity sent Yijun's heart into a chaotic rhythm, his every word or glance a force that tethered Yijun to reality. Now, in his absence, everything feels off-kilter, wrong. The solid ground beneath his feet seems insubstantial, as though he should be floating, untethered. Each morning, Yijun rises with an unspoken hope, his heart briefly lifting at the thought of finding the dragon lying by the water, his otherworldly beauty untouched by the world's chaos. But the dragon is not there. The absence crushes him, leaving the world muted and dreamlike. Only the dragon's cold, sharp presence could pierce through this haze and anchor him to something real.

A gentle shake pulls him back. He blinks and looks up into the concerned face of the old man.

"You alright, son?" the man asks, his voice warm with concern.

Yijun musters a faint smile, nodding. "I'm fine."

The man pats his shoulder again. "Come to my house. You've worked hard, and my wife's dumplings are the best around. You need a good meal."

Yijun follows without protest, listening as the man chatters about his family. "A capable young man like you, you must have a wife already, eh?" Old Guo jokes.

Yijun smiles faintly and shakes his head. He humors the man's talk, following him down the winding street toward a modest home at its end. As they step inside, the warm scent of meat and spices envelops him, a sharp contrast to the lingering scent of grief outside.

The old man's wife, a bustling, motherly figure, greets him with enthusiasm, ushering him to the table already set with steaming dishes. The old man's son and his family sit nearby, their smiles welcoming and kind. Yijun sinks into a wooden chair that creaks softly under him, the warmth of this family a small balm to his weary soul.

As they eat, the old man talks of rebuilding Midway, his voice brimming with hope. Though his own family was spared the worst of the tragedy, he's spent his days helping neighbors rebuild their homes. Yijun listens quietly, picking up one of Mrs. Guo's dumplings. The soft dough yields to his teeth, releasing a burst of savory pork juices, rich and flavorful. He chews thoughtfully, unable to resist comparing it to his own cooking. The ingredients are finer, but he takes quiet pride in knowing his hands could craft something just as good—perhaps better.