***
One morning, Yi heard noise in his study and came up to find his friends clearing away the broken bookshelves and charred writing desk.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Yi asked. “I don’t want anything in here moved. Leave it exactly the way it is.”
Peisau swung his single eye in his direction. “We’re three old men who are tired of chopping firewood,” he said. “It’s time to use what’s on hand and save our aching joints.”
“This is my house,” Yi said, “and I say you will touch nothing.”
They ignored him, the three of them hefting up lengths of the broken bookshelves and toting them into the kitchen for firewood.
Yi trailed after them. “I don’t want anything moved!” he shouted. “Do you hear me?”
They marched past him back into the study, none of them so much as looking at him.
Yi seethed, pacing back and forth. Didn’t they understand he needed to preserve the place of Jian’s death? That he needed to remember the way he had unearthed her body from the pile of charred timber?
In the end, he returned to his work in the vault. It was clear he would have to resort to physical violence if he wanted to stop them. As much as he wanted to hit something, he couldn’t muster the energy to attack his friends. Besides, he didn’t stand a chance against all three of them—even if they were old. Likely he’d find himself bound and gagged to a chair if he tried.