"I know, I know," Xue Yang interrupted. "You don't want to talk about it, and I'm not gonna make you, Daozhang, don't worry." He had the hem of Xiao Xingchen's wide sleeve between his fingers—just enough to draw him in by, to keep him aware of his friend's physical presence. "Just let me guess. You don't even have to tell me if I'm right, if you don't want to."
He would, though, Xue Yang was sure.
Xue Yang is sewing. In the indecisive light of a single candle, the seam he's reinforcing wavers back and forth, merging with his fingertips until the stab of the needle separates them suddenly out: the thing that bleeds and hurts, and the thing that lets the sharp point pass through and through it, apathetic.
A character study of Xue Yang and his sewing skills, through the years in Yi City.