Morning in Liangcheng arrived without ceremony.
The street outside Jiù Mèng Xuān was already awake when Qing Yun stepped off the car. Vendors lifted metal shutters, kettles whistled softly behind open doors, and somewhere down the road, an old radio played a song no one really listened to anymore.
She paused at the entrance.
The wooden plaque above the door had not changed. The same faded characters. The same small crack at the corner where rainwater always gathered in summer.
Everything looked exactly as it had before.
She pushed the door open.
The familiar scent of old paper, starch paste, and sandalwood met her at once. It settled into her lungs gently, like a hand placed over the chest — grounding, steady.
Inside, Shen Huai Zhen sat at the long worktable, his back straight, white hair tied neatly behind his neck. A manuscript lay open before him, weighted at the corners by smooth river stones.
He did not look up.
"You're late," he said.
Qing Yun placed her bag down quietly and bowed, deep and precise. The movement felt natural, as if her body had remembered it long before her mind caught up.
"I'm back," she said.
That was all.
Shen made a sound that could have been a hum or a grunt. He did not ask where she had gone. He did not ask how long she would stay.
He simply slid a folder across the table.
"Work."
---
The manuscript he gave her was not rare in value, but old in spirit.
The paper had softened unevenly with age. Ink had bled through the fibers, leaving faint shadows beneath the characters. The edges were brittle — the kind that would crumble if handled without patience.
Qing Yun studied it carefully.
This was not something to fix quickly.
Shen watched her for a moment before speaking again.
"You can't rush this," he said. "If you try, you'll ruin it."
She nodded. "I know."
She washed her hands, dried them slowly, then sat down. Her movements were calm, economical. No hesitation. No flourish.
As she began, the world narrowed to texture and pressure — the slight resistance of the fibers, the sound of her brush barely touching the surface.
Her breathing steadied without her noticing.
Time moved.
Outside, morning became noon. Light shifted across the studio floor. Shen worked on his own piece, occasionally glancing in her direction, saying nothing.
She did not ask questions.
She did not need to.
---
During the midday break, Shen poured tea.
He set a cup in front of her, the steam rising between them.
"You lost something," he said suddenly.
Qing Yun did not look up from her hands. "Yes."
"And yet," Shen continued, "your hands don't shake."
She lifted her gaze then. Her expression was composed, but honest.
"If they did," she said, "I wouldn't be worthy of this work."
Shen studied her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"Then you've learned the most important thing already."
He lifted his own cup. "Restoration is not about returning things to how they were. That's impossible. It's about deciding what deserves to continue."
Qing Yun absorbed his words quietly.
After a pause, she said, "Some damage doesn't show on the surface."
Shen smiled faintly. "Most doesn't."
They drank in silence.
---
In the afternoon, Shen unlocked a cabinet he rarely opened.
Inside were older materials — fragile scrolls, partial texts, fragments too delicate for careless hands.
He handed her one without ceremony.
"You may work on this," he said.
It was not an announcement.
It was permission.
Qing Yun accepted it with both hands.
Trust carried weight.
She felt it settle into her shoulders, not as pressure, but as responsibility she was ready to bear.
---
By evening, her hands smelled faintly of paste and old paper.
She cleaned her tools, aligned them neatly, and bowed again before leaving.
"Tomorrow," Shen said, without looking up.
"Yes," she replied.
Outside, the sky had darkened. The river nearby reflected a ribbon of light, slow and patient.
When she returned home, Ze Yan was already there.
He looked up from the sofa the moment she entered.
"You worked," he said.
"Yes."
"You look better."
She considered that, then nodded. "I feel steadier."
He did not ask more.
Later, as she washed her hands at the sink, watching the water run clear, she paused. Her palm rested lightly over her abdomen — not in pain, not in longing.
Just acknowledgment.
Some losses did not disappear.
They settled.
And became part of how one moved forward.
---