Shen Liyan stood at the far end of the courtyard, eyes half-closed as the breeze tugged at the ends of his cloak.
The celebration behind him roared on — congratulations for the victory, praises for his leadership, admiration from fellow officers. Yet none of it reached him.
The moon hung low, casting pale light across the flagstones. A golden glow spilled from the grand hall where the celebration continued, but Shen Liyan remained outside, wrapped in silence.
His gaze lingered on the path she had once walked — the very road she had taken years ago when she left without a word.
And she had returned.
He had seen her.
Not clearly — not enough to chase after her. But enough to recognize the curve of her shoulders, the softness of her walk, the way she still folded her hands before her like a fragile secret she never dared to share.
She had stood there, across the crowd, looking at him with unreadable eyes. And then… she turned and left.
Just like that.
And he had done nothing.
He closed his eyes now, pressing his thumb against his temple as if that could silence the storm brewing inside. Regret was a strange companion — quiet, constant, eating away at him in the hours between dusk and dawn.
He thought of her often — in the stillness before a battle, in the rare moments of peace, when laughter echoed around him but never from within.
He had written letters, once. Dozens of them. Words like I'm sorry, I was wrong, Come back to me — all sealed in silence, never sent.
Not because he didn't care. But because he feared he had already lost her.
Because he feared she had stopped caring.
He remembered the last time they truly spoke. The tremble in her voice, the pain she tried so hard to hide.
He had been too focused on his duties, on strategy and honor and ambition. He had thought she would wait. That she would understand.
But love wasn't something to be taken for granted.
He realized that too late.
Even now, when he replayed the memory of her eyes—eyes that once looked at him like he was her entire world—all he saw was distance.
And then came the announcement.
Jiang Yuyan.
A name whispered among generals and ministers. A match approved by the court. The daughter of General Jiang, a man ranked above Shen Liyan in the military chain of command. Their union was a political alignment, a matter of convenience and future power.
He hadn't said yes.
But he hadn't said no either.
And silence, as he had learned the hard way, was a cruel answer in itself.
He didn't love Jiang Yuyan.
They had met only a few times, and their conversations were formal, filled with politeness and empty smiles. There was no spark. No laughter that came easily. No past, no shared memories.
But it was duty.
And he had always chosen duty over everything else.
A soft clatter pulled him from his thoughts — a servant passing by with an empty tray, giving him a respectful nod. He didn't respond.
His mind was still on her — on the way she had turned to leave.
He wondered if she had cried again. Alone. Like the last time.
He wondered if she had looked back.
He hadn't had the courage to find out.
He gripped the edge of the wooden railing, knuckles white. Just once, he wished he could be the man who ran after what he wanted. Who cast duty aside and followed his heart. Just once.
But his feet remained planted.
He didn't move.
He never did.
And maybe that was the worst part of all — not the regret, not the what-ifs, not even the pain of losing her.
But the knowledge that when he still had time, when fate gave him a fleeting chance, he stood still.
Cowardice. Pride. Fear. A blend of emotions he couldn't untangle.
She had looked so different — older, perhaps, but not colder. She still held herself with the same quiet strength. There was sadness in her eyes, but also grace. Dignity. It made him ache to know she had endured all those years without him.
Had she waited for him once?
Had she hoped he would come?
Had she stopped hoping eventually?
The questions bled into one another until his chest felt heavy, like he was carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid words. He had so much to tell her — and yet, when the moment came, he said nothing.
Not even her name.
He remembered how she used to tease him for being so serious, for burying himself in scrolls and strategies. She'd drag him out under the stars, insisting he sit beside her and listen to the night.
He had laughed, back then.
Now he couldn't even smile.
Behind him, music drifted out again — loud, jubilant. Celebration. A room full of people praising the hero of the hour.
But Shen Liyan had never felt more like a fraud.
He turned away from the railing, footsteps echoing lightly on the stone as he walked back into the darkness, away from the light, away from the noise.
He didn't want to be congratulated.
He didn't want to be celebrated.
He wanted to go back in time and hold on to her hand — just once — and never let go.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
And now she was gone.
Again.
And he was the one who let her go.
He stood beneath the plum tree at the edge of the courtyard, the same tree that had once sheltered them from rain. He reached out, brushing his fingers along the bark.
It had grown thicker over the years.
Just like the wall he had built around his heart.
The sky began to shift, stars blinking into view. A soft wind rustled the branches, and for a brief second, he imagined her laughter carried in it.
It was gone in a blink.
Like her.
He remained there, long after the last guest left, long after the moon began to dip.
Regret — a companion more loyal than any soldier — stayed by his side.
And he said nothing.