Avelreese had been staring at the page for ten minutes.
The pandaren’s face was proving difficult. Round, warm-eyed, the kind of settled that came from something deeper than sleep — she could still see him clearly enough. Every brushstroke came out too precise, too architectural. She was filing a report, not drawing a person.
She wrote the characters underneath the half-finished sketch instead:
物来顺应。未来不迎。当时不杂。既过不恋。
He’d said it on a monastery step, during that expedition she’d spent her whole young self worrying through. She’d been cataloguing catastrophes when she’d nearly missed him entirely — broad shape in afternoon light, eating a peach, completely unbothered by the entire world.
She’d asked how he didn’t worry. He’d pointed at the peach.
The memory made her giggle.
A knock.
“I hear you giggling,” Zyneese said through the door. “It’s suspicious.”
“I’m reflecting.”
“You’re drawing something terrible and laughing at it.”
Avelreese looked at the sketch. Objectively terrible.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Zyneese leaned against the frame — already floured, somehow, at this hour — and regarded the open journal with the expression she reserved for tactical errors.
She held out a Pepe's Vacation Home .
“Lulureese needs to be outside. It’s spring. The bird can take her.”
“They’ll wreak havoc together,” Avelreese said.
“Outdoors,” Zyneese agreed. “That’s what matters.”
“Sourdough’s proofed,” she said. “Come and not-help. We’re making extra after — afternoon tea, for everyone.”
Avelreese closed the journal. “That’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t push it.” Zyneese was already down the hall. “Bring the journal. Maybe the panda will look better after you’ve eaten something.”