The dawn did not break; it leaked into the room like a pale, watery grey ink. The air was stagnant, heavy with the stale, ghostly remains of a dozen cigarettes and the dry, powdery scent of chalk dust.

Lin Yi woke with his head resting on his easel, his neck stiff. Xiao He was gone from the floor, but the balcony door was cracked open. A thin draft brought in the smell of the city waking up — fried dough from the street vendors, exhaust fumes, and the dampness of a river that never truly dried.

He found Xiao He standing on the small concrete ledge, silhouetted against a sky the color of a faded pearl. He was wearing Lin Yi’s silk robe, the deep charcoal fabric hanging off his thin frame. Between his fingers was a fresh cigarette, the smoke rising in a straight, unwavering line.

"The sun is coming," Xiao He said without turning. "It’s going to wash everything out. All your blues and violets... they’ll just be white noise soon."

Lin Yi stepped onto the balcony. The contrast was sharp: the cold morning air against the lingering warmth of his skin. He stood behind Xiao He, not touching him, but close enough to smell the sharp ginger of his hair wash and the lingering bitterness of the tobacco.

"Colors don't disappear in the light, Xiao He. They just change frequency," Lin Yi said softly.

Xiao He turned, and in the harsh, unforgiving light of morning, he looked fragile. The bruised violet under his eyes had turned a hollow grey. He looked like a man made of glass, held together only by the smoke he inhaled.

"I have to go back," Xiao He whispered. "My father’s funeral is this afternoon. The incense there... it won't smell like yours. It’ll smell like obligation and ending."

Lin Yi felt a cold spike of dread. "You didn't tell me it was today."

"If I told you, you would have tried to paint hope into me," Xiao He said, a small, sad smile flickering on his lips. He flicked his ash over the railing, watching it vanish into the concrete canyon below. "And hope is a color I can't afford to wear right now."

He stepped back into the room, leaving a trail of smoke and cold air. He began to dress, the sound of his zipper and the rustle of his clothes feeling like a series of small, final doors closing.

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