Shen Qingyu woke again sometime past noon.
Sunlight crept through the paper window, stopping just short of her bed, as though even light knew where it did not belong. For several moments, she lay still, listening to the unfamiliar silence.
No footsteps hurried toward her door.
No concerned voices whispered her name.
Her chest tightened slightly—not from shock, but from recognition.
So this was how things were.
With careful effort, Shen Qingyu pushed herself upright. Dizziness washed over her immediately, her vision blurring at the edges. She paused, breathing slowly until the world steadied again. This body was weak, far weaker than she had expected, and impatience would only punish her.
She glanced around the room.
It was small and plainly furnished. Clean, but old. The desk bore scratches from years of use, the wardrobe door hung unevenly on its hinges, and the bedding was thin despite the season's chill. It was not the room of a favored daughter, nor even that of a properly acknowledged one.
On the table beside her bed sat a bowl of medicine.
Cold.
It must have been delivered hours earlier and forgotten. Shen Qingyu stared at it for a moment, then reached out and lifted it with both hands. The bitter smell hit her nose before the liquid touched her lips.
She drank it all without hesitation.
The taste was unpleasant enough to make her throat tighten, but she swallowed every drop. Refusing it would not bring anyone running. Complaining would not earn concern. The original Shen Qingyu had learned that lesson too late.
As she set the empty bowl down, fragments of memory surfaced—this room, this routine, this quiet neglect. A younger version of herself lying here, waiting for footsteps that never came. Waiting for acknowledgment that was never given.
"I won't wait anymore," Shen Qingyu whispered.
The words felt steady rather than bitter.
She shifted her position carefully, resting her back against the bedframe, and closed her eyes. If survival in this household required strength, then she would begin with the only thing this body could manage.
Endurance.
Outside, the general's residence continued its disciplined rhythm. The faint sound of training drifted from the distant courtyard—commands, footfalls, controlled breathing. Life moved forward without her participation.
That was fine.
If no one expected anything from her, then she could rebuild quietly, beyond notice. She would learn this body's limits, respect them, and expand them slowly.
Shen Qingyu opened her eyes, gaze calm and focused.
This room might have been forgotten.
She would not be.