The studio was quieter than usual.
Not in sound. The kettle still bubbled. The chimes near the window clicked faintly in the breeze. But something had shifted. The space felt as if it were waiting.
Xu Songzhuo stood at the table, folding a soft cotton cloth over the finished panel. The carved surface gleamed faintly in the early light, its grain catching the pale warmth of morning. He moved slowly, carefully, his sleeves pushed to the elbows, hands steady.
Next to him, Shen Xifan rolled the carving tools into their worn canvas wrap. She tucked the smallest brush beneath the fold of cloth as if it were fragile. Her fingertips lingered on the edge of the roll before she tied it closed.
They had not spoken much that morning. There was no need to.
The panel was finished. The invitation accepted. The exhibition awaited.
Xu placed the wrapped panel into a wooden crate lined with felt. It fit snugly. He ran his palm once along the lid before lowering it shut.
Xifan straightened and glanced toward the courtyard.
"Do you want to leave tonight or tomorrow?"
He considered her question for a moment.
"Tomorrow," he said. "I'd like to see the old bridge again before we go."
She nodded once, then walked to the window. Outside, the canal glinted with mid-morning light. A heron stepped along the bank near the plum tree, moving like it was thinking.
"It won't be the same when we return," she said softly.
Xu walked over to stand beside her.
"No," he replied. "But that's not a bad thing."
They stood there a while, not speaking, until a knock came from the courtyard gate.
It was the paper merchant, holding a small envelope sealed with string.
"A visitor left this with me. Said it was for you. From someone who knows your work," he explained.
Xifan accepted it with a slight bow of thanks. When she returned inside, she did not open it right away.
Instead, she looked at Xu.
"Shall we read it together?"
He gave a small nod.
They sat beside the worktable, knees brushing beneath the bench.
She untied the string. The paper unfolded neatly in her hands. The letter was handwritten, precise and deliberate.
To the artist who vanished, and to the one who stayed.
We have seen the panel. It speaks with clarity. It does not ask to be judged.
If you are willing, we would like to arrange a private gallery hour. Not for press. Not for critics. For those who remember the years between silence.
Please respond in time.
There was no signature. Only a date, printed in fine pencil.
Xifan traced the bottom corner with her thumb.
"Someone from your world?" she asked.
"Someone from both," he replied.
She folded the letter again and placed it between the pages of her sketchbook.
"Then we'll go," she said.
"Yes," Xu agreed. "Together."
They left early the next morning.
The canal path was still damp with dew, and the air smelled of moss and last night's rain. Xu Songzhuo carried the crate over one shoulder, his steps careful along the cobbled path. Shen Xifan walked beside him, her canvas tool roll slung across her chest, a satchel at her side. She wore her light scarf, the one with ink blot stains near the corner, though the morning was warm.
Neither of them said much.
The village had not yet stirred fully. Stalls were only just being lifted open. A woman rinsed vegetables in a red basin by her door. The old bridge in the distance was half-covered in mist.
When they reached it, Xu slowed.
He placed the crate down at his feet and looked out over the water.
"This was the first place I came to after I decided not to leave," he said.
Xifan stood beside him, arms folded lightly.
"I remember," she replied. "You were sweeping the walkway."
He gave a quiet smile.
"I didn't know what I was doing back then. I only knew I wanted to stay near the sound of the river."
A pair of ducks glided past below them. The water moved slowly, steady and patient.
She turned to face him.
"And now?"
"Now I want to carry it with me."
They stood on the bridge until the mist began to lift.
As they stepped off the far side, an old woman who sold osmanthus cakes nodded at them from behind her cart.
"You two," she called gently, "make sure the world does not take too much."
Xifan paused and bowed her head slightly.
Xu nodded in return.
By the time they reached the small local station, the train had just arrived. The doors hissed open with a soft click.
Xu stepped in first with the crate. Xifan followed, one hand resting lightly on the door rail.
They took a seat by the window. The carriage was nearly empty. Across from them sat a man reading a newspaper, its front page folded down to hide his face.
Xifan unwrapped a rice ball and handed it to Xu. He accepted it with both hands.
Outside, the village began to blur. The canal, the rooftops, the plum trees.
All of it faded into green.
She watched the countryside slip by and whispered, more to herself than to him.
"We left quietly. That feels right."
Xu glanced at her, then turned his gaze back to the passing hills.
"We'll return quietly too."
She nodded once.
But even as she closed her eyes to rest, she felt the pull of something ahead.
A city waiting.
A room of carved panels.
And people she did not yet know how to face.
The train reached Hangzhou just after noon.
It was not loud or crowded. Not yet. A weekday, off-peak. Still, the moment Xu and Xifan stepped onto the platform, something shifted. The air felt heavier. More layered. Like there were more eyes in the room, even if none were watching.
Xu adjusted the crate on his shoulder, gaze steady. Xifan followed beside him, her steps light, but her hand clenched once inside the fabric of her coat.
Neither of them said it aloud, but they both felt it.
The world was close again.
A car had been arranged by the gallery — discreet, window-tinted, driven by a man who said nothing beyond a polite greeting. The city slipped past them in clean lines of glass and stone. The sidewalks bustled, unfamiliar yet still full of things Xifan remembered.
Billboards.
Cameras.
A pair of teenagers standing outside a bubble tea shop, one holding a tabloid magazine she used to be in.
She looked away.
They arrived at the annex gallery by early afternoon. A side wing of the museum, private and pale in design. The woman waiting at the door greeted them with quiet warmth.
"We're honored you accepted."
Xu only nodded.
The gallery room was not large, but it was beautiful. The walls were pale wood, soft-lit. A carved panel already stood in the center — his older work. A quiet piece from five years ago. One he hadn't seen since he submitted it and walked away.
Next to it, an empty space.
A plinth had been prepared, angled perfectly to catch the light.
Xu uncrated their piece with Xifan beside him. Together, they lifted the second panel into place. The weight was familiar now. Balanced. Not difficult.
Once it stood, the woman stepped forward again.
"We'll keep the space closed to the public. You may rest. The viewing is tomorrow at noon. A quiet group. Friends of the curators. No press."
Xifan gave a soft thank you.
As the woman stepped out, Xu stared at the two panels side by side.
The contrast was gentle, but clear.
One was precision. Mastery. Isolation.
The other was memory. Movement. A shared hand.
He sat on the low bench and let his eyes adjust to the stillness.
Xifan stood at a distance, taking in the room as a whole.
"I thought it would feel worse," she said after a while.
"Coming back?"
She nodded.
"But it doesn't," she continued. "It just feels... smaller than I remembered."
Xu looked up at her.
"That's not the gallery," he said. "That's you."
A faint smile touched her lips.
She stepped closer, taking a seat beside him.
They stayed like that for a while. Just sitting. Letting the wood and stone remember them.
Then, as they stood to leave, a figure appeared in the entrance of the gallery. Quiet footsteps. A tall man in a charcoal coat. He held nothing. Carried no camera.
But Xifan stopped walking.
Her body shifted slightly. Not in fear. In recognition.
Xu noticed.
"Someone you know?" he asked.
She didn't answer right away.
The man approached slowly, stopping just before the threshold.
His voice was soft, and for a moment, it belonged to a different life.
"I heard you'd be showing something again."
Xifan looked at him carefully.
"I wasn't sure you still followed this kind of thing."
"I don't," he said. "But some names still make it through."
There was no bitterness in his voice. Just a kind of careful distance.
Xu watched, silent but present.
The man looked toward the panel they had placed.
Then back at her.
"You carved this?"
"Together," she replied.
He nodded.
"I see."
He didn't say more. He didn't need to.
Then, without asking to stay, he turned and stepped back into the hall.
Gone as gently as he had arrived.
Xifan stood still for a long moment.
Then looked at Xu.
He didn't ask what the history was.
He only said, "Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head once.
"Not yet."
And he replied, "That's enough."
They left the gallery quietly.
Outside, the wind picked up again.
But this time, it felt like a signal.
Not of warning.
But of change.