Love has no face.

After that day, Lan Wangji withdrew from the world.

He no longer walked the quiet paths of the Cloud Recesses, nor joined the morning recitations, nor played his guqin beneath the moonlight. The once-open doors of the Jingshi stayed closed—curtains drawn, lanterns dimmed, the air within thick with incense and memory.

He lived, yes—but only for them.

For his brother, who visited each morning without fail, leaving tea by his bedside and gentle words in the hush, even if they were met with silence.

For his uncle, who ensured the sect maintained its reverence for him, who silenced any whispers that dared rise in the corridors about the tragedy that had befallen their second jade.

But Wangji never emerged. Not once.

The mirror in Jingshi remained covered, its silver-backed glass hidden beneath silk. Wangji could not bear to look. His hand would tremble if it brushed his own cheek—the once flawless skin now marred, healed by medicine but not untouched by memory.

And it was not only the burns.

It was the violation. The echo of unwelcome hands. The phantom weight of humiliation.

Whenever someone knocked at the door—even gently—he froze, heart racing, breath caught. The world outside felt too vast, too loud, too full of eyes that might see him.

So he stayed inside.

He read.

He cultivated.

He listened to the wind beyond the walls.

He breathed.

He endured.

---

Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.

The world moved on—but Wangji's world remained suspended in twilight. He was polite when Xichen spoke. He bowed silently when Qiren entered. He answered when addressed, but only in a few soft-spoken words, his voice stripped of its former clarity.

Once, a young disciple left fresh lotus roots at his door. He did not open it.

Once, Sect Leader Nie, Nie Mingjue, came to visit—he never got past the outer gate.

Wangji could not face anyone. He did not want to see the sympathy in his brother's friends' eyes. The Nies, always so forthright, came with concern and condolence, but he could not bear their kindness, could not bear to be seen.

The boy who had been a symbol of discipline and beauty in Gusu now moved like a ghost—seen by few, known by fewer.

But he lived.

Not because he wanted to, but because his Gege had begged him to stay.

Because his uncle had looked at him not with shame—but with pride.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the ruins of his spirit, a tiny seed of longing remained. For healing. For music. For light.

But it had not bloomed. Not yet. Not now.

For now, he was not ready.