The ledge became their temporary sanctuary as the sun climbed higher.
Cherry petals had slowed to a gentle drift—occasional stragglers catching on eyelashes, sleeves, the curve of a collarbone. The three of them sat in a loose triangle: Mei cross-legged in the center, Sùyīn leaning against her left shoulder, Xīuyīng on her right—close enough that their knees touched.
The two Heart-Blossom tokens lay on the flat rock between them. Petals fully open now, stamens glowing a deeper rose-gold. The pink qi threads had thickened into soft cords—wrapping each girl's wrist like living silk bracelets. Warm. Unbreakable. Chosen.
No one had spoken since the confession under the cherry rain.
The silence felt full rather than empty.
Eventually Mei broke it—voice quiet, almost careful.
"The loop is cracked. I can feel it. Like a door that's been forced open but hasn't quite swung wide yet."
Xīuyīng nodded slowly.
"The hairpin's shards are gone. The blossoms have bound us. But the elders will not let this end quietly. They'll come. With arrays. With enforcers. With every precedent of seven cycles."
Sùyīn traced one of the pink cords around her own wrist.
"Then we finish it before they arrive."
Mei looked down at the blossoms.
The scroll in the archive had been clear:
If the exiled claims the Heart-Blossom willingly, and the judge accepts the binding… the loop shatters.
But it hadn't said how.
Or what the final price would be.
Mei lifted one flower—hers—held it between both palms.
The petals trembled against her skin.
"I can feel it asking," she said. "It wants the last choice. Not from duty. Not from fear. From me. From us."
Xīuyīng reached for the second blossom. Held it the same way.
"What does it want?"
Mei closed her eyes.
Listened.
Images came—not memories from the hairpin, but something newer. Something born here.
A single lifetime.
Short.
Mortal.
No cultivation towers. No endless qi. Just ordinary days: tea in the morning, laughter over burnt rice, hands held under starlight, growing old together.
Three hearts beating in the same small house.
Then quiet.
Then nothing.
No next loop.
No next exile.
No next sentencing.
Just one life—full, warm, finite.
Mei opened her eyes.
Tears tracked down her cheeks before she realized they were there.
"It wants us to let go," she whispered. "Of immortality. Of power. Of the cycle's promise of endless returns. It says… if we choose forever together, we can have it. But only once."
Sùyīn's breath hitched.
"One lifetime."
Xīuyīng's fingers tightened around her blossom.
"And if we refuse?"
Mei looked at her—then at Sùyīn.
"Then the loop repairs itself. We go back. I wake up in the murder forest again. You sentence me again. We chase each other through centuries again. Until the next crack. And the next. Forever."
Silence again.
Heavier this time.
Sùyīn spoke first—voice thick.
"I never wanted eternity anyway. I just wanted… someone to stay. Someone who stays because they want to. Not because they're cursed to."
She looked at Mei.
Then at Xīuyīng.
"I choose one life. With both of you."
Xīuyīng exhaled—long, shaky.
"I have lived long enough as ice. Long enough as judge. Long enough alone." She lifted her gaze to Mei. "I want to be warm. Even if it's only for a little while."
Mei nodded—tears falling freely now.
"Then we choose."
She pressed her blossom to her chest.
Xīuyīng mirrored her.
Sùyīn placed hers between them—all three hands overlapping, petals touching skin.
The pink cords flared—bright, blinding—then sank inward.
Not pain.
Release.
The blossoms wilted in their palms—petals curling brown at the edges, light fading to soft embers, then ash.
When the last spark died, the wind picked up—gentle, almost apologetic.
The qi threads vanished.
No more loop.
No more hairpin echoes.
No more seven lives stretching backward and forward.
Just them.
Here.
Now.
Mei looked between them—Sùyīn's sharp eyes softened with tears, Xīuyīng's winter gaze melted into something achingly human.
She laughed—soft, broken, joyful.
"We did it."
Sùyīn wiped her face with her sleeve.
"We're mortal now. No qi. No meridians. No cultivation. Just… us."
Xīuyīng reached out—took one of Mei's hands, then Sùyīn's.
"Then we make it count."
They sat there until the sun stood high—three girls on a ledge above the world, no longer bound by curse or sect or fate.
Only by each other.
Far below, the academy would be in uproar.
Arrays would be searching.
Elders would be furious.
But up here—on this small shelf of rock—the cherry petals had finally stopped falling.
And for the first time in seven cycles, spring felt permanent.