The temple stirred awake beneath a sky the color of bruised silk. Roosters called faintly from distant courtyards. Steam rose from earthen pots. The world outside Mei Lin moved forward as if the night had not split her open.
She remained on the bench, hands wrung raw from scrubbing, the basin of linens now cold and forgotten.
She hadn't slept.
She couldn't.
He's here.
He nearly saw me.
And still… the echo of his voice—deeper now, rougher than she remembered—stayed lodged in her ears. It had wrapped around her like smoke, pulling at frayed pieces of herself she'd buried long ago.
She didn't want to admit it, but part of her had wanted to look.
Just once.
To see if his eyes still held the boy she'd known beneath all that iron and discipline.
But she hadn't.
She couldn't.
Not when everything she'd built since escaping that life could vanish in a single look.
---
Inside the command tent near the eastern wall, Shen Liyan poured over district maps. His jaw was set, one hand resting on the table's edge, the other tracing infection clusters with his thumb.
He hadn't said a word since arriving.
Captain Zhou cleared his throat, unsure whether to speak.
"I want a full report by this evening," Liyan said, not looking up. "Start with the west district. No delays."
"Yes, Commander."
He waited until the captain had left before allowing himself a breath.
His gaze shifted to the tent flap, then to the infirmary window just visible beyond it.
That voice.
It had been years since he'd last heard it, and still—his body had reacted before his mind could reason.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
It wasn't just the cadence or the tone.
It was the way she spoke. Controlled. Soft. As if every word had been measured before release, like it had once cost her too much to speak freely.
He knew that voice.
He shouldn't be thinking about this.
But the woman hadn't turned around.
Hadn't flinched at the title of "commander."
No trembling. No misplaced deference. Only silence... and control.
His eyes narrowed.
She said she'd been to many clinics.
But there was something about the way the others deferred to her. The way Doctor Liu nearly named her.
She wasn't just a helper. She ran that section.
And yet, she remained unnamed.
---
By late morning, Mei Lin had returned to the storeroom under the west veranda. Jun was there, organizing herbs and rice water packets. The scent of camphor hung thick in the air.
"You should rest," Jun said gently.
"I'll rest when he leaves."
"You think he'll remember?"
Mei Lin didn't answer. She turned toward the low shelf and pulled out a bundle of muslin wraps with fingers that no longer shook.
"I think… Shen Liyan doesn't forget what he wants to remember."
Jun fell silent.
After a while, he added, "He looked at you like he already knew."
---
Meanwhile, Shen Liyan stood near the infirmary gate, his eyes scanning the rows of patients. But his attention flickered—again and again—back to the triage tent.
To the woman who hadn't turned around.
To the steady hands and calm voice.
To the strange, sharp tug in his chest he hadn't felt in years.
He didn't believe in ghosts.
But this one walked like her. Spoke like her. Moved like the memory of someone he'd lost before he could admit she mattered.
The woman who had vanished from a brocade room with nothing left behind…
…except a small paper crane, folded carefully, and placed beside the carved wooden one he'd once given her.
---
That night,
Mei Lin stood at the edge of the courtyard, the moonlight painting her in silver. Her robes clung damp with mist, and her fingers twisted at the sleeves as she watched the infirmary tent dim its lanterns one by one.
He hadn't approached again.
But she could feel him.
As if his presence curled just around the edges of every corridor she walked.
She didn't know what was worse—
That he might not remember her…
Or that he already had.