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Summary
When the flower at Shen Yilun’s shoulder seems to bloom fully, there’s a pause, and then its petals open wide, a small cloud of motes shivering free from its cold center. Shen Yilun’s nose twitches as he breathes it in, slow and earnest, as if being presented with something important: That is what it always feels like, Zheng E had said.
Let Shen Yilun feel it even more closely, then.
“Shen Yilun,” Zheng E warns, his voice sounding somehow so distant.