Wu Fan was warm, solid, and he could finally, finally hold him, hug him, feel Wu Fan’s arms around him.
“Thank you,” Wu Fan said, and this time, the words were pressed against his skin, and Zitao memorised every syllable. “Thank you for summer. I…”
Wu Fan’s words trailed off as Zitao’s arms closed around air. He was dimly aware of the spirits that hovered nearby through his tears. The mask rested just by his hand. In the distance, the smoke from the bonfire of the festival rose above the trees. But summer had just begun.
And it was a summer he would never forget.