The Teahouse at Dawn

Silhouettes

He asked with hesitation, reaching out to gently turn the boy’s face toward him. But the boy quickly lowered his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thank you, young master,” he whispered.

It wasn’t quite the response he had imagined, yet there was nothing overtly wrong in it either. Smiling, he ran his fingers slowly through the boy’s long, dark hair. The boy leaned forward, resting his head on his lap—quiet and obedient, heartbreakingly tender.

He often wondered what truly went on in the boy’s mind, but no matter how closely he watched, it remained unreadable. Still, something in the way the boy looked at him always felt a little different from how he treated the rest of the world.

Business was exhausting. Yet no matter how weary he returned, the boy would always have a pot of warm tea waiting—sometimes Rainflower, sometimes Jade Dew—each one steeped to gentle perfection. It soothed not just the body, but the heart.

At times, guilt crept in. This house, this life—the boy knew no one else but him. And when business grew too busy, he’d vanish for days on end. What did the boy do in those stretches of silence? Had he, in a way, locked him away in a quiet little world, hidden from life?

So, one day, he told him gently, “If you’re ever bored, you should go out. Take a walk. You don’t have to stay in all the time.”

He wasn’t afraid the boy would run—on the contrary, he didn’t quite understand why he wouldn’t.

The boy nodded softly, but he rarely left. It was as though nothing outside the gates truly called to him. Still, he didn’t seem unhappy. A few times, the young master had quietly snuck in to peek—only to be caught. The boy, startled, would hide something quickly behind him, flushing deeply and refusing to reveal it no matter how he teased.

He didn’t press. Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly compare to his Ming’er—so beautiful, so luminous.

Spring came, and he reached the age of twenty. By now, he had become everything a family could hope for: elegant, handsome, brimming with poetic charm.

Unsurprisingly, his father arranged a match. The daughter of a prominent local official—said to be gentle and graceful, gifted in music and art.

He wasn’t thrilled, but he didn’t resist. He’d been spoiled long enough. Someday, the family business would fall to him. He couldn’t indulge in idle pleasures forever. Besides, what was a marriage? A formality. It didn’t mean he had to stay beside her night after night. What son of a noble house didn’t keep concubines, actors, or young companions?

Still, each time he sat beside the boy, the words stuck in his throat.

One evening, as the brazier warmed the room and he lay lazily against the bed, idly wrapping a strand of the boy’s black hair around his finger, letting it slip free and curl again, the silence stretched between them.

And then the boy spoke.

“…Young master is getting married, isn’t he…”

He froze. Then gave a vague murmur in reply.

When the boy said nothing further, he hurried to add, “I’ll still treat you the same as before…”

The boy turned to him, slowly. His eyes were as clear as spring water, soft and quiet. “I know,” he said.

Relief settled in his chest like a warm stone, but also—unexpectedly—a sliver of frustration. The boy had accepted it too easily. He had hoped he wouldn’t mind too much… but he hadn’t wanted him to be completely indifferent either.

Not long after, lanterns were hung high, red candles flickered, and laughter echoed across the courtyard. The bride, delicate and elegant, stepped gracefully into the house. The wedding rites blurred past in a haze—bowing to heaven and earth, toasting the elders, smiling through the banquet.

Tipsy with wine, his thoughts drifted back to that morning a year ago—when he had first stumbled into the tiny teahouse, and into something that had felt like a dream.

He glanced at the bridal chamber once, then, almost unconsciously, turned and walked toward the little courtyard.

The snow had melted, but spring’s chill bit sharply. The courtyard was dark—utterly dark—as though its occupant had long since gone to bed. No lamp. No glow. No sound.

He stood there for a long time, letting the cold seep into his bones. Only when he felt truly frozen did he quietly turn and leave.