Shen Qingyu did not return to the courtyard.
Days passed, and her absence stretched from unusual to conspicuous. In a household where every child of the general was expected to train—regardless of talent—routine mattered. Deviations were noticed, even if the reason behind them was ignored.
At first, the instructors assumed she had collapsed again.
"She's always sick," one of them said dismissively when her name was brought up. "Nothing new."
But a week later, when the roster was checked and her name remained untouched, irritation surfaced.
"She hasn't appeared at all," another remarked. "Not even to watch."
That comment reached General Shen Yanwu by accident.
It happened after morning training, when the general was inspecting weapon maintenance. An instructor mentioned the disrupted count of onlookers in passing, more complaint than report.
Shen Yanwu paused.
"Which onlooker?" he asked.
The instructor hesitated, then answered, "Third Miss. Shen Qingyu."
The name did not immediately summon a face.
That alone unsettled him.
"How long has she been absent?" Shen Yanwu asked.
"Nearly half a month, General."
Silence followed.
Shen Yanwu disliked disorder. He disliked negligence even more. A child under his roof vanishing from daily routine without formal notice was unacceptable—regardless of whether that child was weak or strong.
That evening, he summoned the household steward.
"Why was I not informed of Shen Qingyu's condition?" he asked bluntly.
The steward lowered his head. "Third Miss collapsed in her room, sir. She has been recovering quietly."
"Physician?"
"The household physician visits… when required."
"When required," Shen Yanwu repeated flatly.
The steward felt a chill creep up his spine.
"From now on," Shen Yanwu said, "any change in her condition is to be reported directly to me."
"Yes, General."
Elsewhere, Shen Qingyu knew nothing of this exchange.
She was seated by the window, hands resting loosely in her lap, breathing slow and measured. The faint warmth within her body stirred more frequently now, responding gently to her controlled breaths.
She did not chase it.
Progress was still fragile.
That night, a warmer meal arrived. The soup was thicker, the rice less watery. No explanation was given.
Shen Qingyu noticed immediately.
She ate in silence, eyes thoughtful.
So her absence had finally been acknowledged.
Not because she demanded attention.
Not because she collapsed loudly.
But because she was no longer where they expected her to be.
A small, knowing smile touched her lips.
Sometimes, the most effective way to be seen
was simply to step out of sight.