The morning after Xu Jin's visit, Yueli did not rise early.
She lay still beneath layers of silk, eyes open, watching dust drift through the golden light. The bruises had begun to fade, but the ache lingered deep in her bones—no longer from injury, but from exhaustion. From carrying everything for too long.
There was a knock.
Not the maidservant's hesitant tapping, nor the impatient rap of a sister-in-law. It was steady. Low.
She did not answer.
"Yueli," came Yuan's voice through the door.
A pause.
"I've sent for medicine. The physician will be discreet. You needn't see anyone you don't wish to."
Still, she did not answer.
"I—" He hesitated. "I'm sorry."
A beat passed, then his shadow retreated down the hall.
Yueli's lips parted.
But the words didn't come.
….
That afternoon, she stepped into the garden, wrapped in soft grey robes, hair loose at her back. The light breeze stirred fallen blossoms across the stone path.
She was not alone.
A woman stood by the pond, running her fingers lightly over the water's surface. Her robes were fine, but plain—linen dyed a muted plum. Her posture was graceful. Familiar.
Yueli stopped.
The woman turned.
She was beautiful—strikingly so, in a soft, haunting way. Her eyes were dark and thoughtful. Her smile was careful.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude. I was just…" Her voice trailed off as she offered a shallow bow. "My name is Wen Qingxue."
Yueli's breath caught.
The name rang like distant thunder.
Yuan's love.
Unspoken. Unacknowledged. But known.
Wen Qingxue straightened. "I used to come here often, before the late master passed. Your husband and I—our families were close."
Too close, Yueli thought, but said nothing.
Wen Qingxue glanced at the garden wall. "He used to paint in that corner. He never liked to share his sketches."
Yueli finally found her voice. "He doesn't paint anymore."
"I know," Wen Qingxue said quietly. "He changed after the marriage."
The silence between them deepened, heavy with things not spoken.
"I'm not here to stir old memories," Wen Qingxue added gently. "I was passing through. I only… I wanted to see the garden again."
Yueli gave a slight nod, then turned and walked away.
But the storm had already seeded itself in her chest.
….
That evening, Yuan found her seated alone, a half-finished scroll in her lap.
"I didn't know she would come," he said.
"I didn't ask," she replied.
He stepped closer, uncertain. "She came to see my mother, I think. They remained friends."
"I see."
Yuan swallowed. "She means nothing to me now."
Yueli looked up at him, and for the first time, there was no bitterness in her expression.
Only emptiness.
"That's the cruelest thing you could have said," she said softly. "Because once, she meant everything."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
She rose, her form elegant despite the pain.
"Don't offer me scraps of guilt. I survived too long on nothing."
….
Later, Yuan sat alone in his study, the door closed against the rising winds outside.
He had tried to reach her.
But her walls were higher now, and he could no longer see over them.
In a box he hadn't touched in years, he found one of his old sketches—her, seated beneath plum blossoms, eyes closed, lips parted in a song she'd never sung aloud.
He had drawn her with love.
But married her with duty.
Now, he feared he would lose her in silence, the way he had always lost the most precious things.