Chord

The silence of the Library Pavilion that used to comfort him now tugged at Lan Wangji's heart. He'd rather hear the incessant shuffling of feet, the sound of crumpled papers tossed aside, and the not-so subtle snicker that used to accompany him.

He furrowed his brows before placing the book down with a thud. From it fell an aged paper, well kempt from being stuck in between the pages. Lan Wangji gazed at the drawing on the paper: it was a portrait of a younger version of himself with a flower nestled on top of his head. His fingers grazed the surface of the drawing, as if he was afraid that it would tear at the slightest touch. He couldn't help but linger on the drawing and the memory that came with it. And, as if burnt by fire, he quickly retracted his fingers, the solemn look on his face crumpling for a moment before he decided to leave the place for a while.

The moon immediately greeted him as he walked outside. The night breeze tickled his cheeks, as if inviting him to go further and Lan Wangji did. He walked and walked away from the Library Pavilion, away from the memories, and away from the pain it brought. He was keen on running away that he didn't notice that his feet brought him to a familiar looking wall.

For a moment, he could see the faint figure trying to scale the wall in a pathetic manner. For moment, he could see the stupid smile that seemed warmer than the sun and brighter than the moon. For a moment, he could hear the sweet laughter filling the air. In that short moment, he couldn't help but look away and clench his fists. As soon as the wind blew, the figure, the smile, and the laughter all faded away as if it was never there to begin with.

Lan Wangji couldn't stand it.

No matter where he went, it haunted him. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he couldn't silence the voice that teasingly called him.

Lan Wangji! Wangji!

Brother Lan? Ah, Lan Zhan!

Lan Wangji steeled himself and headed to a secluded area. One more time—just one more time. He will play the Inquiry again tonight with his guqin like he has done for the past few years.

He carefully settled the instrument on his lap. His fingers hovered above the strings before plucking a chord. It was gentle yet firm. If one listened carefully, the tune carried a hint of longing and a hint of regret. He plucked a few more strings, the sound ringing in the quiet place. It was the same question he asked that remained unanswered:

Wei Ying?

His nimble fingers glided over the strings once more, playing a clearer melody. This time, it was alloyed with pain. He has waited for a response for so long. How long has it exactly been? 13 years? It wouldn't hurt to wait longer.

For a second, Lan Wangji's movements stuttered, his hand lingering. He lied. It did hurt; however, it was precisely because of this pain that he continued waiting. It was because of this pain that he continued playing the Inquiry over and over again. He felt pathetic.

Before his fingers could strum his fingers against the strings, a breeze swept by, caressing his cheek with a cool touch. That was when a chord was plucked. Lan Wangji froze, his breath stuck in his throat.

I'm here.