The next morning, Jia found a quiet corner to sit in the imperial infirmary, choosing a low wooden bench tucked beneath the lattice window. The herbs shimmering in clay pots released a faint, bitter scent that drifting physicians barely noticed anymore, but today, everything felt transparent, and too sharp.
After reading that letter, the words haunted her as if she, too, had somehow become entangled in whatever was truly happening. It had bothered her so much that she burned the letter after she finished reading it.
No one would be able to tell if she read it or not, right? To them, she was illiterate. Keeping the letter wouldn't solve anything, but destroying it felt like the only way to avoid being caught in something she wanted no part of.
