I raise the hand he isn’t holding to make a threatening motion at him. “Oh my god, if you bring that up again, I swear—”

But he grabs it too and easily locks both my wrists in his grip, tugging me forward until I’m inches away from him, close enough to watch the yellow light of the fireworks through the reflection in his eyes.

And suddenly I remember the note from the Yellow Mountain, written by a steady, careful hand. You remind me of the greatest sculptors, who can turn marble into the impression of billowing silk, the coldest stone into something soft. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that everything you touch turns beautiful. The world becomes beautiful, as long as there’s you.

It really is beautiful, I think to myself as I lean in to kiss him.

* * *

Before the sun has even risen, I slide out of bed, the mattress creaking behind me. Then I shrug off my pajamas and zip up my sundress, fumbling around in the dim light as quietly as possible to avoid waking Daisy. I can already feel the anticipation building beneath my bones as I brush my hair and teeth and spritz perfume just behind my ear. It’s the same eager flutter I would get on the morning of Christmas or my birthday, when I had everything in the world to look forward to, even if I didn’t know what was going to happen yet.

A cool breeze fans my skin as I step outside, ruffling the hem of my dress.

Dew glistens on the wild grass around me, and the clouds burn gold and pink on the horizon, the early mist softening all that it touches: the wind chimes tinkling from the hotel’s overhanging eaves, the cobbled path leading into town, the sloping, layered lines of the rice terraces. Guilin at dawn looks like something out of a dream. It’s so beautiful that my breath catches, that my throat aches a little from it.

And then I see him.

He’s waiting on a stone bridge, the canal flowing beneath him. His dark hair is wind-rumpled, his shirt loosely buttoned, and the surreal, dreamlike sensation intensifies. When our eyes meet, a small, surprised smile comes to life on his face, like he can’t believe I’m joining him.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks as he makes his way toward me.

“Here is perfect,” I say. Right now, I can’t think of a single place on earth I would prefer to this.

We both stop at the foot of the bridge, and for a few moments we’re silent, the kind of silence that’s as natural and seamless as breathing. It’s enough to simply be standing together, just the two of us, staring at the clear waters and the jade mountains.

“I don’t think I’m ready to leave,” I admit.