Before too terribly long, it comes to an end. The qin is a quiet instrument; there is no especially grand finale, only the last notes echoing lowly throughout the parlor. Lan Wangji composed this song believing that he was sentencing himself to madness over one boy for the rest of his life, and he was right, but he might like to see the look on his own fifteen-year-old face if he could speak to that young man and tell him that one day Wei Wuxian would be in his bed every night, would yield to him in all the ways that he wants and defy him to the same standard, would kiss him through a smile several times a day.

Lan Wangji lets the silence creep in afterward, his own attention now on the happily-snacking rabbits.