Ashes. A promise beyond death

Chapter 4 – Echoes of Ashes

The case was closed.

But Yu Bin didn't feel victorious.

The papers were signed, the confessions gathered, and justice — as much as it could be — was served. Moon had offered a quiet nod. Xian Chen had tossed her a crooked grin. The district attorney had even sent her a dry, formal "congratulations."

But inside her, it was all still echoing.

The boy's voice as he signed his confession, every stroke of ink a shiver across her spine.

His mother's tears when she finally let go of the secret, shaking as if her guilt was rooted in bone.

The trembling silence that followed, thick as fog — as if even the air itself mourned what this family had endured.

And still, somewhere beneath all that, something throbbed inside her.

Not pride.

Not relief.

Emptiness.

The kind that couldn't be named or filled. A silence that howled when everything else quieted. A part of her long ago had started to mistake that silence for peace, and now… now it was the only thing that still felt real.

---

Later that evening, they found themselves gathered in a quiet restaurant — a place tucked between forgotten alleys, dimly lit with soft yellow bulbs and warm wood. The kind of place that smelled of jasmine tea and old stories. Where the clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation tried to mask the things no one knew how to say.

"Cheers," Xian Chen declared, raising his glass with a grin too wide, too bright. "To justice. And to the boss who doesn't know when to stop chasing ghosts."

Yu Bin smiled faintly, mirroring him with a small nod. Her fingers curled around her glass like it was something to hold onto — not out of habit, but out of necessity.

Moon leaned in, voice low. "You did good."

She hummed. That was all. Just a sound. Not agreement. Not denial. Just something to prove she was still there.

By the fourth drink, her fingers had stopped trembling.

By the sixth, she'd stopped pretending to smile.

Xian Chen stayed close, as he always did when her soul began to slip through the cracks. When her silence became too loud. He knew, even if she never said it aloud — this wasn't celebration. It was survival.

When the evening ended, she could barely stand.

"I'll take her," he said gently, already steadying her with one hand at her back.

Moon hesitated near the door. "You always get quiet when she drinks."

"I have nothing to say," Xian Chen murmured, guiding her toward the exit. "Not tonight."

Moon watched him for a long beat, his expression unreadable. But in the end, he only nodded.

---

Her Apartment. Close to Midnight.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing the night in with them. Outside, the city exhaled — a slow breath of rain and neon light.

Yu Bin's breath was shallow, caught between sleep and memory. Her body moved on instinct, swaying gently with each step as if her soul had drifted somewhere her feet couldn't follow. Xian Chen helped her out of her coat, his hands careful, reverent, as though she might dissolve if he touched her too suddenly.

She murmured something — too soft to catch — and leaned into him, her weight light and yet unbearably heavy.

He helped her to the couch. The room was dim, the curtains drawn. A single lamp flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across her tired face.

The rain had softened, now little more than a hush against the windows. It should've been soothing.

It wasn't.

He turned to grab a blanket — to give her space, comfort, something solid in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.

But her hand — small, trembling — caught his sleeve.

"Don't go…" she whispered.

He froze.

Her voice was slurred, yes. But something in it was clear. A thread of truth tangled in haze. Not now, not this life — but deeper. Older.

Her eyes opened, glassy with alcohol, yet sharpened beneath the blur, as if something ancient stirred within her.

"Don't leave me again…"

Xian Chen sat beside her slowly, unsure if she meant now or then.

Then her voice cracked, soft and shattered.

"You killed them."

The words sliced through him.

She wasn't angry.

She wasn't even crying.

She was remembering.

And memory… memory was always crueler than rage.

"My master," she continued, barely a breath. "My parents. The fire… the blood… it was you."

He didn't speak.

There was nothing he could say. Nothing that would be enough.

"You didn't even deny it," she whispered. "Back then. When I asked you. You just said… 'I'm sorry.'"

Xian Chen lowered his eyes, breath hitching. Her hand dropped from his sleeve, and with it, something inside him cracked.

She turned her head, shame rising in her chest like a tide that threatened to drown her.

"Why do I only remember this when I drink?" Her voice splintered. "Why does it feel like it happened before I was even born…?"

Because it did.

He wanted to say it.

Wanted to tell her everything — that she wasn't losing her mind. That the weight she carried wasn't imagined.

That her dreams were echoes of a past life.

That the pain belonged to a girl with the same face and name, long before this world ever touched her.

But the truth wouldn't heal her now.

So he said what he always had. What he would always say.

What she had once torn from his lips with a sword to his throat:

"…I'm sorry."

Her lips trembled.

She didn't scream.

Didn't cry.

Didn't ask again.

She just looked away, a thousand lifetimes sitting behind her lashes.

"You could've just said yes…" she whispered.

Then her eyes drifted closed, as if sleep was the only escape from the ghost that sat between them.

Xian Chen didn't move.

He remained on the floor beside her, his back resting against the couch, watching the shadows stretch across the room like silent witnesses.

Outside, the rain began again — soft and persistent — like a lullaby only sorrow could hear.

He reached up slowly, gently covering her with the blanket she'd dropped earlier. She didn't stir.

Still, he didn't rise.

Didn't move to the door. Didn't seek the comfort of distance or time.

He just stayed.

Because staying now — when it was hard, when it hurt — was the only apology that mattered.

And though he couldn't change what had been, though he couldn't reach back and undo the day she lost everything…

He could be here.

At least this time… he wouldn't leave.