Chapter 17 — A Candle for the Eyes
That evening, Shen Yanci came home late.
I was at the table, brush in hand, paper spread out, trying to force my fox story into existence for the bookshop’s deadline.
The candle beside me burned low.
I rarely lit candles.
Even now, habit and fear of wasting coin clung to my fingers.
But lately, my eyes had begun to ache more, especially at night. The words blurred too easily. Moonlight was no longer enough.
The attendant“s voice”Lin Jingran“s attendant”had said it through a locked door: my eyes were worse.
I hated that it was true.
When the gate creaked, I looked up.
Shen Yanci stepped into the courtyard, shoulders dusted with faint chill, his expression calm but his eyes thoughtful.
He paused at the threshold of my room.
“You”re working, he said.
“I have a deadline,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “The bookshop”
“I know,” he said, and the way he said it startled me.
“You” know?
He stepped inside slowly, careful as if afraid to disturb the air.
“I went,” he admitted, voice low. “I asked.”
My brush froze mid-stroke.
“You went to the bookshop?” I whispered.
Shen Yanci’s ears reddened faintly, as if the act of learning my life felt too intimate.
“I wanted to understand,” he said simply. “What you”re doing. Why you“re so tired.”
Heat rose behind my eyes, unexpected and sharp.
I blinked hard and looked down at the paper, pretending I was only studying my own handwriting.
“And?” I asked.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he reached into his sleeve and set something on the table.
A small candle.
Not the cheapest kind.
A better one, thicker, with a steady wick.
Then another.
And another.
My breath caught.
“I” I began, but my voice failed.
Shen Yanci’s gaze lowered to my hands, to the faint ink stains, to the thinness of my fingers.
“You don”t light candles,“ he said quietly. ”Because you think you can“t afford it.”
I swallowed.
He leaned closer and, with careful hands, trimmed the wick of the old candle. Then he lit the new one.
The flame rose, steady and bright, filling the room with warm light.
The paper before me sharpened. The ink looked darker. The world stopped blurring at the edges.
My throat tightened so suddenly it hurt.
“Teacher”“ I started, then caught myself, cheeks warming. ”Shixiong
He glanced at me, and for a moment the title made something soften in his eyes.
“You need light,” he said. “For your eyes.”
I stared at the candles as if they were treasures.
In the Lin residence, I had been told I was greedy for wanting marriage.
Here, Shen Yanci gave me light so I could keep writing my own way out.
I let out a shaky breath.
“I can pay you back,” I said quickly, because old habits didn“t die easily. ”The stories are selling. I have coin
“No,” he said.
The firmness in his voice stopped me.
He sat down across from me, posture straight, hands folded, as if he were about to lecture an unruly student.
But his gaze was warm.
“Don”t turn everything into a debt,“ he said softly. ”Not here.
The words landed in my chest like a quiet bell.
I swallowed hard and looked away, suddenly embarrassed by how close tears hovered.
Outside, the wind rustled the leaves.
Inside, the candlelight made the room feel larger than it had ever felt.
I dipped my brush, and the ink flowed smoothly.
My fox story had words again.
And for the first time, writing did not feel like survival alone.
It felt like a life we were building—line by line, under steady light.