Night settled quietly over Liangcheng.
Lights inside the mansion were dimmed, warm rather than bright. Dinner had ended some time ago, the table already cleared, the house slipping into its familiar evening stillness. Qing Yun sat by the window with a cup of tea in her hands, the steam thinning as it rose, then disappeared.
Ze Yan was across from her, reviewing something on his tablet. He noticed her silence before she spoke.
"I've been thinking about my mother," Qing Yun said.
Her voice wasn't heavy. Just calm. Like someone stating a fact they'd been carrying for a while.
Ze Yan set the tablet aside. He didn't rush her. He never did.
"She called?" he asked.
"No." Qing Yun shook her head lightly. "She hasn't contacted me in a long time."
She watched the reflection of the city lights against the glass. Cars moved far below, small and distant.
"I don't resent her," she continued, as if clarifying something important. "I never did."
Ze Yan remained quiet, listening.
"I understand her," Qing Yun said. "I understand why my existence is… complicated for her."
She didn't say the words out loud. She didn't need to. The past was already known between them.
The rape.
A child born from violence.
Years of struggle.
Then Si Yao's death — the final collapse.
"For her," Qing Yun said softly, "I'm not just a daughter. I'm a reminder."
She turned slightly, looking at Ze Yan now. "Every time she sees me, she's forced to remember things she's spent her whole life trying to survive."
Her hands tightened briefly around the cup.
"That's why I stayed away," she said. "Not because I was angry. And not because I needed anything from her."
Ze Yan's expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened.
"I stayed away because I didn't know if seeing me would help her… or hurt her more."
The room remained quiet after that.
Then Ze Yan spoke, carefully. "Do you want to see her?"
Qing Yun didn't answer immediately.
"I don't know," she said truthfully. "I don't even know if she wants to see me."
Her tone wasn't bitter. Just realistic.
"If I show up without knowing what she wants," Qing Yun continued, "I might be choosing my own need for connection over her ability to breathe."
She lowered her gaze.
"I don't want to do that to her."
Ze Yan studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
Qing Yun looked up, surprised by how easily the question was offered.
"I want to know she's okay," she said. "That she's alive. That she's… not alone in the worst way."
She hesitated, then added, "I don't want her to know it's me."
Ze Yan nodded once.
Then he said, "I already did."
Qing Yun froze.
"…What?"
"I had someone look into it," Ze Yan said calmly. "A long time ago."
He didn't say when. He didn't need to.
"After Lingjiang," he continued, "I made sure she had access to help. No names. No connections to you."
Qing Yun stared at him.
"She's in rehabilitation now," Ze Yan said. "It took time. She resisted at first. But she's stable."
Her breath left her slowly.
"She doesn't know?" Qing Yun asked.
"No," Ze Yan answered. "And she won't — unless one day you decide otherwise."
Silence stretched between them again.
Qing Yun looked back toward the window, the city blurred through the glass. Her chest felt… lighter. Not relieved. Just steadier.
"That's good," she said quietly.
Ze Yan watched her profile. "If one day she asks about you, you'll be told."
Qing Yun nodded.
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then this remains enough."
She turned back to him, searching his face. "You don't think this is… cruel?"
Ze Yan shook his head. "No."
He paused, then added, "Love doesn't always look like presence."
Qing Yun closed her eyes briefly.
"If one day she wants to see me," she said, "I'll be there."
Then she added, firmly but gently, "But until then… this distance is better for her."
Ze Yan reached for her hand, his grip warm and steady.
"You don't owe anyone redemption," he said.
"I know," Qing Yun replied.
Later that night, she stood alone by the window.
The city hummed softly below, indifferent and alive. Somewhere far away, her mother was also breathing, existing, taking one step at a time toward something steadier.
Qing Yun didn't know if they would ever sit across from each other again.
She didn't know if healing would include her.
But for the first time, she knew this much—
Loving someone didn't always mean standing beside them.
Sometimes, it meant knowing when not to appear.
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