---
By the next morning, the Shen estate was drowning in tension thicker than the mist that rolled through its courtyards.
Servants walked in pairs. Even the bravest of the gatekeepers lit incense at their posts. The usually lively kitchen was dead silent—save for the careful chopping of vegetables, the clink of porcelain bowls, and the occasional nervous cough. No one wanted to speak of Orchid Courtyard, but their eyes kept drifting in that direction.
Everyone knew.
Everyone felt it.
And then, as the fifth bell rang, Shen Yuhan emerged.
She wore white today—an elegant ruqun with soft silver thread at the hems, embroidered with plum blossoms just barely in bloom. Her hair was half-up, half-down, styled with a single silver hairpin shaped like a crescent moon. In her hands, she carried a porcelain tray with a bowl of congee, still steaming, a small dish of pickled vegetables, and a red sandalwood bottle containing calming tonic.
Ming'er followed, carrying a simple oil-paper umbrella.
Ah Zhu walked behind them both, holding a silk-covered copy of The Ghost Bride.
They moved slowly through the main walkway, heading straight for Orchid Courtyard, and the household began to stir like birds before a storm.
Stewards paused mid-task. A few maids pretended to sweep, but their eyes followed every step. Behind shuttered windows, heads peeked out. Someone whispered, "She's going to see Second Miss."
By the time Shen Yuhan reached the threshold of Orchid Courtyard, two maids had already run ahead to announce her arrival.
Xiao Yue appeared, her face pale and hands shaking.
"Eldest Miss… thank you for coming." Her voice cracked. "Miss Yulan is… not herself. She barely slept, she won't eat, and she keeps muttering things—nonsense, names, questions about red wedding robes…"
Shen Yuhan nodded sympathetically and stepped into the courtyard.
It reeked of incense.
The once-pristine floors were muddy with footprints and ashes. Red strings—once tied for good fortune—now lay tangled and broken. At the heart of the chaos was Shen Yulan, hunched on a chaise near the open window, her face a ghostly white, her eyes red-rimmed and sunken.
She looked up as Shen Yuhan entered—and for a brief moment, something like hope flared in her eyes. "Sister… sister, you have to help me…"
Shen Yuhan approached slowly, setting the tray down on the side table.
"I heard you were unwell," she said gently. "I brought your favorite congee. Mother told me plum blossom calms your nerves, so I asked the kitchen to make it fresh."
Shen Yulan flinched at the word mother. Her eyes darted behind Shen Yuhan, as if expecting someone to emerge from the shadows.
"There's something here," she whispered. "In the mirror… in the courtyard… it's following me, watching…"
"Shh," Shen Yuhan soothed, kneeling beside her. "Drink something. You must be cold."
She lifted the bowl and gently brought it to Shen Yulan's lips.
But the younger girl slapped it away.
"It was you!" she hissed. "You made this happen! You brought the ghost—you're the ghost!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Even Xiao Yue and the maids froze, unsure of whether to intervene.
Shen Yuhan's expression didn't change. She calmly picked up the fallen bowl, wiped her robes where it had splashed, and set it back on the tray.
Then she stood, slowly.
And smiled.
"I've never seen a ghost wear hairpins and drink plum wine," she said softly. "But maybe you have."
She turned to Xiao Yue. "Have someone bring a physician. And notify Mother Su that her daughter's illness has worsened. If there are wandering spirits here, perhaps we should also ask the temple to send a monk."
She began to walk away—but paused just at the threshold.
Her voice was still light, almost amused. "You know, Sister… the ghost bride in the story never blamed the people who wronged her. She simply waited. Waited until they destroyed themselves."
Then she stepped out into the daylight.
Leaving behind a silent courtyard filled with shivering maids—and a girl whose own mind had become her prison.
---
Later that afternoon, Su Wanning returned.
Drenched, furious, her hair half-loosened by wind and travel, she entered Orchid Courtyard demanding to see her daughter.
What she found was chaos.
The physician had declared Shen Yulan "spirit-afflicted" and advised a full seclusion, no contact with outsiders, and no mirrors in her room. Incense burned constantly, monks had been requested from the nearby temple, and servants now spoke of Second Miss in hushed tones—as if she might shatter if someone called her name too loudly.
"Who allowed this!?" Su Wanning screamed. "Who dared turn my daughter's courtyard into a madhouse!?"
Xiao Yue fell to her knees. "It was the steward's orders, Madam… and Eldest Miss. She said it was the only way to preserve Second Miss's reputation—that if word got out that she'd… lost her mind…"
"Enough!"
But Su Wanning knew.
It was over.
Whatever grip she had on the household—on her image, on her daughter's superiority—had unraveled.
And Shen Yuhan had never once needed to lift a blade to do it.
---
That night, in Osmanthus Courtyard, Shen Yuhan lit a single red candle and placed it by the window.
It burned steady and silent.
Ah Zhu watched from the doorway. "It's done, then?"
"For now," Shen Yuhan murmured. "But this is only the beginning."
The candle's flame danced in the still air, casting soft shadows across the lacquered floor of Osmanthus Courtyard.
Ming'er brought in a new pot of tea, her small hands steady, but her eyes wide with restrained curiosity. "Miss… will they come for you now? Madam Su must be furious…"
"She will be," Shen Yuhan replied, swirling her teacup without drinking. "But she won't act—at least not yet."
Ah Zhu stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Because she can't risk appearing unstable herself?"
Shen Yuhan nodded slowly. "Exactly. If she lashes out now, it will seem like desperation. People already think the Orchid Courtyard is cursed. If she draws attention to it, it'll only feed the rumors."
Ah Zhu poured a second cup and passed it to her. "So what now?"
Shen Yuhan took a slow sip. "Now… we let her simmer."
She rose from the window and walked toward the writing desk, where Granny Zhang's storybook lay open beside a bundle of folded letters tied in silk thread. Her fingers brushed over the cover of The Ghost Bride, then paused on the letters—old correspondence from her mother's hand, retrieved quietly from the sealed chest last week.
A flicker of sadness passed through her gaze.
"I wonder," she murmured, "how long Mother endured this kind of deception before she stopped trusting anyone."
Ah Zhu and Ming'er exchanged glances but said nothing.
Then, suddenly, Shen Yuhan's gaze flicked toward the storybook again.
The Ghost Bride. The tale had reminded her of something else—someone else.