After half an hour of trekking through mist like worn silk, the girl finally returned home, a swallow finding its eaves.
She pushed open the Moon Post Bookstore’s door; the bell chimed like a raindrop, and a cloud-soft sofa and bamboo-straight shelves filled her view.
On sunlit days like polished jade, whether she lounged on the sofa with the paper or sat at the counter with a book, it felt like warm tea.
Sun laid on paper like fine gold dust, and the faint scent of age rose like dried leaves—that was exactly what Yue Liuyi cherished.
But such sky-clear weather was rare, a monsoon gift that visited for only a few weeks, like cranes alighting and gone.
Dreamwood Star’s weather, more often, was this muddied gloom, fog swallowing shadows so the first floor cast almost no silhouettes.
Heart warmed with a small pride, she stepped to the wall and clicked on the pendant lamp, a little sun blooming like chrysanthemum.
Bright light spilled like honey across the scrubbed floor; it was proof that last night’s effort had taken root like spring shoots.
The fix was only a stopgap, a paper umbrella in drizzle; the shop wasn’t on city water or power, so she bottled light and caged water like fireflies in a tank and battery.
It wasn’t a long-term raft on this river, but Yue Liuyi had no better oar to push the current.
Moon Post Bookstore sat in Linluo City’s eastern outskirts like a quiet shrine, far from the bustling heart; to the north lay a long-dry riverbed like cracked clay, and to the south ran the two-way Winter Leaf Road like a narrow ribbon.
Long ago, lanterns and steam lined Winter Leaf Road—restaurants, taverns, and print shops buzzed like hive and market, a small-famous street.
Now only the Moon Post Bookstore remained, an island rock; power cables and poles had fallen like dead vines, and water pipes rusted like old bones.
If Yue Liuyi hadn’t returned after years like a migratory bird, Winter Leaf Road would still be empty as a field, and the government wouldn’t send repair crews like rain.
It all felt like standing at a blank shoreline again, waves of beginning licking her ankles, a clean start that wasn’t quite real.
She lifted a wicker basket of greens like a little forest and climbed to the second floor, ready to wash the vegetables in cold stream water.
LittleSnow’s body was frail like thin ice, so Yue Liuyi chose foods with care: spinach to enrich blood like green riverweed, eggs for protein like small suns, and millet porridge easy to digest like warm mist—all gentle for the sick.
Without the Skyship’s neat galley like steel seas, she still believed home’s stove-fire could care for LittleSnow like a hearth in winter.
“LittleSnow, food’s ready,” she called softly, a nightingale at the window.
“Mmm… Xiaoyue?” came the answer, a sleepy ripple on a pond.
Dixue blinked awake, lashes lifting like dew-heavy reeds, just now returned from dream’s shore.
The silver-haired girl’s hair was tousled like wind-blown grass, and the white curve of her neck gleamed with sweat beads like pearls.
“Huh? LittleSnow, are you feeling warm?” Yue asked, worry rising like cloud.
“N-no… it’s just a trait of my kind,” she murmured, calm as moonlight; “don’t worry, Xiaoyue.”
Since the grievous wound, Dixue needed long hours of sleep and rest, like a caterpillar hidden in leaf shade; she called this ability cocoon-to-butterfly—trading a dimmed mind for the body’s smooth recovery like spring after frost.
“Th-then… before you eat… do you want me to…” Xiaoyue’s voice fluttered like a sparrow.
“Hm? What’s Xiaoyue going to do?” Dixue’s gaze was a forest pool, clear and deep.
“The s-sleepwear… if it’s damp, you’ll catch a chill,” she said, cheeks reddening like sunset.
Yue Liuyi glanced at Yue Dier lying in bed, the girl’s skin white as porcelain moon and her shoulder’s curve clean as a bowstring; if touched, it would be silk under fingers.
“Mm, sleepwear,” Dixue breathed; “I can’t get up, so washing and changing will have to trouble Xiaoyue,” her smile soft as willow shade.
“Y-yeah,” she answered, heartbeat tapping like a sparrow on glass.
“Huh? Is Xiaoyue shy?” Dixue teased, dimples opening like petals; “It’s not the first time.”
“Before was different—it was at night,” Yue said, voice thin as thread; “and LittleSnow was mostly asleep.”
“I don’t mind,” Dixue whispered, eyes green as moss wells; “however you do it, I’m willing.”
“T-then I’ll slip into LittleSnow’s covers!” Xiaoyue blurted, courage flaring like a candle.
“Eh…?” Dixue blinked, surprise like a fish flicker.
“This way, while we change, LittleSnow won’t catch a chill,” Yue explained, logic neat as folded paper cranes.
She grabbed fresh underwear like folded clouds and dove under Dixue’s quilt, into warmth like a nest.
She thought, inside the covers she wouldn’t have to see LittleSnow’s elegant figure like carved jade, and her own shyness would drift off like smoke.
But the blue-haired girl had forgotten another kind of strike, sharp as a hidden fan-blade.
A girl’s scent.
The moment she slipped under, Yue was surrounded by a fragrance like sweet rain; every breath was LittleSnow’s honeyed air, and her heart stirred and thudded like a drum under plum blossoms.
LittleSnow always carried a faint body scent like white tea, and sweat made it bloom stronger now, a garden after a shower.
Ugh, hurry, she told herself, thoughts scattering like startled birds; but it was dim, and she couldn’t find the ties, fingers fishing like blind minnows.
She began to resent the outside haze, that smothering fog; with sunlight, the change would be quick as a knife, but now it was pure fumbling.
Huh? What’s this soft thing? Her hand paused, touching a cloud she hadn’t named.
“Uuu… Xiaoyue, you’re so pervy,” Dixue sighed, a teasing note like bells.
“S-sorry! I grabbed the wrong place!” her words tripped like pebbles down a hill.
“It’s fine,” Dixue chuckled, warmth like a brazier; “even if you like that kind of play, your big sis can indulge.”
“I told you, it’s not like that!” Yue protested, cheeks flaming like maple leaves.
And the girls’ daily life flowed on like a small stream, laughter ringing like wind through willow.
