Lan Wangji is silent, at length. He couldn't say what it is that stops his tongue at all the times when he feels things the most sharply. He has always been quiet, and his mother teased him for it, and so he would break free of the shell of his silence, on occasion, for the sake of making her laugh and pinch his cheeks. And then she died. With Wei Ying, he need not speak at all: Wei Ying can read the whole of his heart in the curl of one small smile.

There is no harm in speaking of the juniors to a kind and curious young man. The memory of their sweet faces and childish laughter is tucked close, beneath all his layers, and he is instinctively protective of everything that lies so close to the vulnerable parts of himself.

"I have a student," Lan Wangji says. "Lan Jingyi. Younger than you. You remind me of him."