The days that followed settled into a rhythm defined by restraint.
Shen Qingyu did not attempt to stand again for several days. Instead, she focused on learning the boundaries of her body—how long she could sit without dizziness, how deeply she could breathe before her chest began to ache, how much effort simple movements demanded.
Progress was measured in minutes rather than milestones.
Each morning, a maid delivered her medicine and meals with the same detached efficiency. The bowls were always left on the table without comment, and the door closed just as quickly. Shen Qingyu neither complained nor protested. She simply ate everything she was given, even when the bitterness lingered on her tongue and made her stomach churn.
Weak bodies required nourishment, whether they welcomed it or not.
At night, she practiced breathing.
Slow, deliberate inhales. Controlled exhales.
She did not chase the faint warmth she had sensed before. She only acknowledged it when it appeared, allowing it to gather and disperse naturally. Pushing it would invite injury, and injury would erase any progress she had made.
Patience, she reminded herself, was also a form of strength.
Outside her room, the general's residence remained unchanged. The sounds of training drifted faintly through the walls at dawn and dusk—commands barked sharply, wooden weapons striking in practiced rhythm. Occasionally, laughter followed, light and careless.
None of it belonged to her.
And that was acceptable.
By the fifth day, Shen Qingyu could sit upright for an entire incense stick without feeling faint. The effort left her exhausted, sweat dampening her hair, but she endured it calmly. When the dizziness passed, she allowed herself a small, private acknowledgment.
I'm still here.
One afternoon, an older maid paused while collecting her empty bowl. Her gaze lingered on Shen Qingyu for a fraction longer than necessary.
"You've been finishing your meals," the woman remarked.
"Yes," Shen Qingyu replied evenly.
The maid said nothing more, but her footsteps slowed as she left the room.
Shen Qingyu noticed.
Change, she understood, rarely announced itself. It arrived quietly, through altered glances and hesitations.
That evening, she approached the window for the first time since her fall. Leaning carefully against the wall, she parted the curtain just enough to peer outside.
The courtyard lay bathed in the fading light of sunset. Young figures moved through practiced forms, their movements sharp and confident. At the front stood a tall man in armor, posture unyielding.
Her father.
Shen Qingyu released the curtain and turned away before emotion could rise.
Not yet, she told herself.
If she wished to be seen, she would do so on her own terms.