Dream of the Red Chamber: Tears of the Willow

The thick velvet drapes of your Bellewood suite muffle the distant clink of catering glasses and shouts from the courtyard, leaving only the soft rustle of fading cherry petals against your bay window as Hazel slips out to fetch Julian.

Ten minutes later, the door creaks open, and Julian steps in, a scuffed acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, his well-worn vintage sketchbook tucked under one arm.

His usual warm smile softens when his gaze lands on your open journal, the ink of your recent poem still smudged where a tear had blurred the lines minutes earlier.

He crosses the room slowly, never pushing, and sets his guitar by the window seat, his eyes flicking once to the unopened Boston letter on your desk before he turns back to you, holding out a folded slip of paper crammed with his looping, messy handwriting.

"I wrote this after we read Mary Oliver’s wild geese last week," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear, "wanted to play it for you before the gala nonsense swallows the whole day whole.

" A sharp gust of wind tugs at the letter’s edge, and from the courtyard, Aunt Frances’s clear, commanding voice carries up the stairs, calling your name, sharp with the urgency of someone who needs a task handled immediately.

Julian’s fingers brush yours as he passes you the lyric sheet, quiet adoration plain in his eyes as he waits for you to respond.