“By the way, your name sounds really scary. I’m afraid my family will be very scared and run away when you meet them. How about calling you a different name?” Jingwen asks the dragon as he rises up from the water. 

“What do you think of the name Yuze?” 

Yijun is appalled as he watches the dragon readily agrees at the man’s casual request. Where was this docility when he was with him? He had always needed to choose his words carefully, walking on eggshells around the dragon. Yet, Jingwen merely asks, and the dragon obeys without hesitation.

The running colors merge into a river, washing over him in a whirl of hues and sound. Snippets of conversation about the human world drift through the kaleidoscope, echoing around him like distant whispers. The colors gradually form into amorphous shapes, before solidifying into a new scene. Yijun now finds himself watching the dragon and Jingwen walking side by side along a peaceful riverbank.

The dragon looks out at the sparkling water of the river. “This world functions as expected. Your settlement is... interesting.”

“That’s it?” Jingwen asks, disappointment evident in his voice.

“I thought, after all the time we’ve spent together, you’d have... deeper feelings than that.”

“And you don’t think about having them now?”

Jingwen looks at him intently, frustration clear in his voice. “You say your kind made us, but do you really know what you’ve created? Do you even understand what feelings are? If we aren’t supposed to feel, then why do we?”

“And you’re just going to let that go?” Jingwen presses.

The dragon turns around and his form dissolves into mist. As he and Jingwen look at the spot he disappeared from, Yijun thinks about the dragon’s distant, calculating nature finally shifting, if only slightly. For the first time, something stirs in him—an acknowledgment, a willingness to explore what he had long dismissed, that gives a sparkle to his eyes despite the lack of life in his voice. A sparkle that he has not seen in all his travels with him. With him, the dragon looks like he is dead to the world and the world is dead to him.

The scenery morphs again, scenes shifting like leaves carried on a river, flowing through moments of the couple’s time together. Yijun watches as they sit side by side, eating rice balls filled with sweet bean paste, their attention caught by the lively lion dance. As the sun dips below the horizon, they join the crowds at the dock, paying a scholar to write their wishes on slips of paper. These wishes are carefully placed inside lanterns, which they release into the sky, hoping the dragons above might read them and grant their wishes. Jingwen picks a lantern adorned with a mandarin duck design, lights it, and hands it to the dragon. The dragon laughs, telling him that dragons cannot read human writing so he and all the humans around them are running a fool’s errand.

Yijun feels disembodied, weightless, watching as these scenes pass him by. He sees the couple on a bridge, the dragon holding a hawthorn candy stick as they peer down at the flowing water. Blossoms drift around them, and they talk deeply. The dragon bites into the hawthorn, its shiny glaze cracking, and the sour juice spills onto his lips. His face scrunches in distaste at the tartness, and Jingwen laughs, reaching over to wipe the juice away with his thumb. The dragon smiles, a rare and radiant expression that catches Yijun off guard. It’s a smile he’s never seen before, like the first rays of dawn melting away the frost, coaxing tender shoots from beneath the snow. For a moment, Yijun barely recognizes him.

“I see why mortals cling to their lives so fiercely,” the dragon muses. They are back on the same bridge where they first met, but now the trees are draped in the reds and golds of autumn. “This has been an interesting experience.”

Yijun sees Jingwen frown at the dragon, looking disappointed. The dragon notices and asks if he has said anything that upset him.

“I’m upset that you think all this is just an excursion for you, but this is our life. This is our reality, but to you, it just seems like a trivial performance,” he says, sulking.

"I did not mean to upset you," the dragon coaxes. "I merely want to explain from our view."

"Go on, then."

“To us, this world is a simulation. But you have shown me that it is more than that. I was born for a singular purpose—to end and restart this simulation, which to you means death. From the moment of my birth, I never truly understood what I was doing. This world is not my creation; I have no part in its beginning, so I never knew its value. I know my work is necessary, but I always saw this world as insubstantial, like dust in the wind. I never knew how beautiful and wonderful it is in its impermanence… until now. By seeing it through your eyes and the way you cherish it.”

He looks at Jingwen with a fondness that Yijun never thought possible. “You are a very remarkable variable.”

The dragon’s smile fades. His fingers dig into the railing as he pulls a gleaming pearl from his sleeve, holding it up to the fading light. “I cannot. I must return. And when I return to heaven, I will destroy this mortal shell that allows me to experience the world as you do. I will remember our time together, but the feelings I’ve gained will be erased completely as emotions do not exist outside this world. There will be no impetus for me to seek you out again.”