Shen Qingyu learned the household best by listening.
Her room was tucked away from the main halls, but sound traveled easily through thin walls and open courtyards. Servants spoke freely here, their voices unguarded by caution or respect.
"She's still sick?"
"Always has been."
"General's blood, yet so useless…"
The words drifted in and out like passing smoke.
Shen Qingyu lay quietly on her bed, eyes half-closed, breathing steady. She did not flinch, nor did her heart race. These were not new accusations. They were old truths, repeated so often they had become accepted fact.
What mattered was who spoke them.
The sharp voice belonged to a young maid—impatient, careless. Another voice, older and flatter, responded without emotion. Others chose silence, their absence of comment more revealing than agreement.
She remembered them all.
Not for revenge.
For understanding.
Later that afternoon, a different maid arrived with her meal. She was older, movements slower, eyes sharper. She placed the tray down and hesitated, glancing at the empty medicine bowl beside the bed.
"You took it already?" the maid asked.
"Yes," Shen Qingyu replied.
"All of it?"
Shen Qingyu nodded.
The maid frowned slightly. "That's rare."
Shen Qingyu said nothing.
The woman studied her a moment longer, as though searching for signs of pretense or hidden ambition. Finding none, she gathered the empty bowl and left without another word.
The door closed softly.
Shen Qingyu exhaled.
Even small deviations unsettled people when they contradicted long-held assumptions.
That evening, fatigue weighed heavily on her limbs. She rested against the bedframe, eyes closed, focusing on her breathing as she had every night since her awakening. In. Out. Slow. Measured.
The faint warmth surfaced again, lingering a heartbeat longer than before.
Her brow creased, but she did not pursue it.
Endurance before ambition, she reminded herself.
Outside, footsteps passed the door—hesitant, pausing briefly before continuing on. Someone had considered entering.
No one did.
Shen Qingyu felt neither disappointment nor relief. Expectation was dangerous, especially in a place where neglect had once been routine.
When night finally settled, she lay back and stared at the ceiling, thoughts clear.
The household still saw her as weak.
Still spoke of her as a burden.
That was fine.
For now, being underestimated gave her something invaluable.
Time.