Late evening had settled over the Chen manor.
Lantern light filled the dining room with a steady glow, warming the polished wood of the low table and softening the pale stone beneath it. Outside the lattice windows, night insects had begun their quiet chorus, threading through the stillness of the house.
Chen Ming sat upright on his cushion, his back straighter than usual. His hair had been tied neatly, loose strands smoothed down with care. He wore a clean robe of light fabric, the collar sitting a little higher, as though he were aware of it.
Lin Shu noticed first.
Her sleeves were rolled just enough to free her hands, her hair gathered simply at the nape of her neck. She placed a dish at the center of the table and paused, eyes resting on her son a moment longer than necessary.
Chen Yuan followed her gaze.
He sat at the head of the table, posture relaxed, one arm resting loosely against the wood. His robe was darker, the cut plain, his hair bound without ornament. He watched Chen Ming quietly.
Chen Ming reached for his chopsticks.
He lifted them, hesitated, then adjusted his grip, angling them the way he remembered seeing his father do. He took a bite, chewed slowly, then nodded once to himself.
Lin Shu's lips curved. She turned her face slightly, covering her mouth with her sleeve.
Chen Ming noticed.
He straightened further and set his chopsticks down carefully, hands resting on his knees. When he spoke, his voice was steady, measured.
"I feel stronger," he said.
Chen Yuan raised an eyebrow. "Stronger?"
Chen Ming nodded at once. "Mm." He clenched his small fist, then relaxed it again. "Much stronger."
Lin Shu let out a quiet laugh.
Chen Ming's shoulders dipped. He glanced between them, lips pressing together. "You don't believe me."
"We believe you," Chen Yuan said. "Go on."
That was enough.
Chen Ming slid off his cushion and stepped back from the table. He planted his feet wide, copying what he remembered. He clenched his fists, inhaled hard, and strained.
"I can—"
His arms trembled.
His breath slipped.
His stance wavered, and he stumbled forward, catching himself against the edge of the table with a dull knock.
The room went quiet.
Chen Ming froze, then straightened quickly, cheeks flushing. "I almost had it."
Lin Shu turned away, shoulders shaking once.
Chen Yuan laughed openly.
He reached out and lifted Chen Ming easily, settling him onto his lap as though the boy weighed nothing at all. "Almost," he agreed. "But not yet."
Chen Ming leaned back against his chest, embarrassed but not upset.
Chen Yuan rested a hand between the boy's shoulder blades. "Tell me," he said, "what does being strong mean to you?"
Chen Ming thought about it. His brows drew together. "Not getting tired so fast," he said. "Being able to hold things longer."
"And if you can't yet?"
Chen Ming looked down at his hands. "Then I'm… not there."
Chen Yuan nodded. "Then all that means is that today isn't the day."
Chen Ming looked up. "Then how long do I have to do it? What if I never become stronger? Isn't it boring?"
"I know," Chen Yuan said.
He adjusted the boy's robe without thinking, smoothing the collar. "That's discipline. Doing it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Even when it's boring. Even when it hurts a little."
Chen Ming was quiet for a moment. "Then… when does it change?"
Chen Yuan considered him. "When you stop counting the days."
Chen Ming frowned. "That doesn't sound fast."
"It isn't," Chen Yuan said. "That's patience."
Chen Yuan considered him for a moment. "Patience is trusting that the effort matters even when nothing changes."
He tapped the table lightly. "Strength doesn't announce itself. One day you notice you don't fall anymore."
Chen Ming was quiet.
Lin Shu spoke softly. "You didn't wake up knowing how to walk either."
Chen Ming's mouth opened, then closed. He nodded once.
"I won't rush," he said.
Chen Yuan's hand remained there, steady. "That's enough."
Lin Shu watched them, her gaze lingering on Chen Yuan. "You seem lighter today," she said.
He glanced at her. "Do I?"
"You're smiling," she replied. "You look… rested."
Chen Yuan exhaled, something easing in his expression. "Some days remind you why the hard ones are worth enduring."
He looked down at Chen Ming again. "The Chen family didn't rise because we were strong. We rose because we lasted."
"When your grandfather was alive," he continued, "we had one shop and more debt than coin. People trusted us anyway. That trust fed us longer than silver ever did."
Chen Ming listened without blinking.
"The mine isn't just stone," Chen Yuan said. "It's work. Warm meals. Children who won't be sent away because there's nothing left."
Chen Ming's fingers curled. "Everyone will be happy?"
Chen Yuan smiled faintly. "Not everyone. But fewer people will suffer."
Lin Shu reached over and adjusted Chen Ming's collar. "That's already more than most manage."
Chen Yuan laughed softly. "That's why I'm happy today."
Chen Ming leaned back against him, the tension leaving his shoulders. "Then I'll get strong slowly."
Chen Yuan nodded. "That's the right way."
The meal continued unhurriedly.
By the time the dishes were cleared, Chen Ming's earlier determination had faded into warmth. His head rested against Chen Yuan's chest, breath even, one hand still curled as if holding something important.
Lin Shu watched them quietly, the lantern light steady above the table.
The conversation slowed without anyone noticing.
Chen Ming shifted once on Chen Yuan's lap, then again, his earlier attention loosening. His head tilted to one side, breath evening out as the warmth of the room and the steady rise and fall beneath him did their work. One of his hands remained curled loosely against Chen Yuan's sleeve, fingers twitching once before going still.
Chen Yuan stopped moving.
He adjusted his arm carefully, easing the boy's weight so it wouldn't strain his neck. His other hand came up without thought, resting against Chen Ming's back, broad enough to cover nearly all of it.
Lin Shu watched the motion closely.
"He's asleep," she murmured.
"Yes," Chen Yuan replied. His voice was lower now, roughened by something he didn't bother to hide.
Lin Shu reached out and brushed her fingers over Chen Ming's forehead, smoothing the faint crease that sometimes lingered there even in sleep. It faded beneath her touch.
"When I was his age," Chen Yuan said quietly, "I already knew how thin a roof could be."
Lin Shu's hand stilled.
"There were days when I listened to the rain and wondered which part of the house would give way first," he continued. "Not because I was afraid…but because I needed to be ready."
He looked down at Chen Ming's face, soft and unguarded. "I don't want his first lessons to be like that."
Lin Shu lowered herself onto the cushion opposite him. "I don't want him counting dangers before he's learned joy."
Chen Yuan glanced at her.
She met his gaze steadily. "I want his worries to be small. Broken toys. Scraped knees. Things that heal quickly." Her voice softened. "I want him to laugh without thinking about tomorrow."
Chen Yuan exhaled slowly. "And I want him strong enough that when tomorrow comes, it won't crush him."
Lin Shu smiled faintly. "There you are."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You say that like it's a flaw."
"It is," she replied gently. "And it's also why I married you."
Her eyes returned to Chen Ming. "I don't need him to stand above others. I don't need him to be feared, or admired, or remembered."
Chen Yuan waited.
"I just want him safe," she said. "I want him to come home every night. To sit at this table. To argue with us over nothing important." She paused. "I want him to grow old enough to think this world is kind."
Chen Yuan's jaw tightened slightly.
"I want him to know the world isn't," he said. "And still walk through it without bowing."
Their gazes met—different wishes, neither yielding.
Then Lin Shu reached out and rested her hand over Chen Yuan's arm, where it curved protectively around their son.
"Then let him have both," she said. "Your strength. My peace."
Chen Yuan looked down at Chen Ming again.
"I will give him everything," he said quietly. "Everything I lacked. Everything I had to claw for."
Lin Shu's voice softened further. "Just don't forget… he doesn't need the sky yet."
Chen Yuan smiled, small and tired. "No, he doesn't. But whenever he will need it.."
"I want to be the sky above him," Chen Yuan continued. "Something wide enough to hold the weight of everything else."
She did not speak for a while.
Then she reached out and rested her hand briefly over Chen Yuan's. "He'll feel it," she said. "Even if he doesn't understand it yet."
Chen Yuan looked at her, then back at their sleeping son.
"I hope so," he said.
The lanterns burned low as the night deepened around them, the room quiet except for the steady sound of a child breathing, unaware of how much had already been placed around him.
***
The room was dimmer than the dining hall, lit by a single lamp set low on the table. Its flame wavered as wine was poured again, the sound of liquid against ceramic filling the pauses between voices.
Elder Chen Zhen sat at the center, his robe loosened at the collar. A cup rested in his hand, already empty. He tipped it back without waiting and set it down with more force than necessary.
An elder across from him watched the motion before speaking. "You drank little at first," he said carefully. "Now you're emptying cups like water."
Chen Zhen did not answer. He reached for the wine again.
Another elder leaned forward, fingers tapping lightly against the table. "In the discussion hall earlier," he said, "you pressed the patriarch hard. And then you stopped suddenly." He paused. "Why?"
Chen Zhen's hand stilled. For a moment, he only stared into his cup.
"What was said between you and him?" the elder continued. "And why did you withdraw your stance?"
Chen Zhen lifted the cup and drank. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, scraped thin by more than wine.
"You don't need to think about that."
The others exchanged glances.
Chen Zhen set the cup down slowly this time. His eyes were dark, fixed on nothing in particular. "Just know this," he said. "Chen Yuan's days as patriarch are over."
The words settled heavily.
One elder inhaled sharply. Another straightened, the crease between his brows deepening.
"Over?" someone repeated, barely above a whisper.
Chen Zhen did not elaborate. He reached for the wine again, his hand trembling faintly before steadying.
Before anyone could speak further, the door opened.
Footsteps crossed the threshold.
A man entered, his build similar to Chen Yuan's, his features marked by the same age and years, though his eyes carried a different sharpness. He stopped just inside the room and bowed deeply.
"Father," he said.
Chen Zhen did not look up at once.