The following morning, disaster arrived.
The day had begun like any other.
Qingli had risen before dawn, prepared medicine with Lan Yue, and spent the early hours tending to the small medicinal garden hidden within the western courtyard.
The morning air was cool and fresh, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming herbs.
Dew clung to the leaves of the plants she had spent years cultivating, and for a little while, the world felt peaceful.
Normal.
Qingli knelt beside a patch of medicinal chrysanthemums, gently watering the roots while Lan Yue busied herself hanging freshly washed clothes to dry.
Then—
The sound of hurried running shattered the quiet and made Qingli look up just in time to see a servant appear at the courtyard entrance.
He was moving so quickly that he nearly stumbled over the uneven stones.
Breathless.
Pale.
Terrified.
The moment Qingli saw his face, a cold feeling settled in her stomach.
The servant stopped several paces away, bent over slightly as he struggled to catch his breath.
His eyes darted nervously toward Qingli, then toward the locked gates of the western courtyard, then back to Qingli again.
It was as though he would rather be anywhere else.
As if merely delivering this message frightened him.
Qingli slowly lowered the watering can, and the garden suddenly became very quiet.
“Miss Qingli.”
The servant’s voice trembled.
Not with respect.
With fear.
Qingli’s fingers tightened around the handle of the watering can.
“Yes?”
The servant swallowed before forcing the words out.
“Master is summoning you.”
The watering can slipped from Qingli’s grasp to the ground.
A few drops of water splashed onto the stone path below, and for several long moments, no one moved.
Not Qingli.
Not Lan Yue.
Not even the servant.
The words seemed to hang in the air, impossible to comprehend.
Master is summoning you.
Lan Yue found her voice first.
“What happened?”
The servant flinched.
“I don’t know.”
The answer came too quickly.
It was too rehearsed, which made Lan Yue narrow her eyes.
“You do know.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
The servant looked ready to cry.
Qingli noticed, which meant whatever awaited her was probably worse than she imagined.
A chill crept down her spine, but she forced herself to remain calm.
Only because years of practice had taught her how to hide her fear.
Inside, however, her thoughts were racing.
Had she done something wrong?
Had someone discovered her trips to the mountains?
Had one of the servants reported her?
Had Zhao Meilin found out?
The possibilities multiplied with terrifying speed.
None of them were good.
The servant shifted nervously.
“Master requested that Miss Qingli come immediately.”
Requested.
Everyone present knew it wasn’t a request.
A summons from the head of the Wen family was an order, and refusing was not an option.
The courtyard fell silent once more while a cool breeze stirred the medicinal herbs around them.
Somewhere in the distance, a bird called.
The sound felt strangely far away.
Qingli lowered her gaze briefly, closed her eyes, and then took a slow breath.
When she looked up again, her expression was calm.
Composed.
The same expression she had worn through years of neglect, punishment, and disappointment.
“If Father is summoning me,” she said quietly, “then I should not keep him waiting.”
The servant visibly relaxed as though he had feared she might refuse.
She followed him through the courtyard and into the main residence, and moments later, Qingli was kneeling on the polished floor of the main hall.
In a familiar position that came so naturally that she barely thought about it anymore.
Head lowered.
Hands folded neatly in her lap.
Back straight.
Silent.
Obedient.
For years, this was how she had always appeared before the people who should have been her family.
The heavy doors closed behind her with a dull thud, and the sound echoed through the vast hall.
And immediately, the freedom of the mountains felt impossibly distant.
Only yesterday, she had been sitting beneath open skies and endless peach blossoms.
The wind had carried laughter through the grove, and sunlight had filtered through flowering branches overhead.
There had been space to breathe.
Space to think.
Space to simply exist.
Now she was back here at the grand hall, which was magnificent by any ordinary standard, with tall red pillars stretched toward the ceiling.
Silk screens painted with landscapes lined the walls.
Expensive incense burned from golden censers, filling the air with a rich fragrance.
Yet to Qingli, the room felt like a cage.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
Suffocating.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to look at her father, Wen Guozhen, sitting at the head of the hall.
His posture was as impeccable as ever.
His dark robes were embroidered with intricate patterns denoting his status, while his expression remained completely unreadable and he looked exactly as he always had.
Cold.
Distant.
Untouchable.
Qingli could not remember the last time she had stood this close to her father.
Perhaps months ago or maybe even longer.
The realization should have hurt, but instead, it simply felt familiar.
Beside him sat Zhao Meilin, who, unlike her husband, made no attempt to conceal her emotions as anger radiated from her.
The fury in her eyes was sharp enough to cut, and her fingers were gripping the armrest of her chair so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
The sight immediately caused Qingli’s stomach to tighten.
And then there was Wen Youru who was standing beside her mother with perfect posture and immaculate appearance.
The favored daughter.
The legitimate young miss of House Wen.
The daughter acknowledged by the world.
Youru’s gaze settled on Qingli.
Watching.
Observing.
There was something strange in her expression.
Not quite anger.
Not quite satisfaction.
But something close.
As though she already knew how this meeting would end and seeing that look sent a chill down Qingli’s spine.
The silence stretched.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three.
No one spoke.
And, Qingli remained kneeling.
Waiting.
The incense smoke curled lazily through the air, causing Qingli head to hurt with the strong smell.
The servants lining the walls kept their eyes lowered, though she could feel their attention fixed upon her, and the entire hall seemed to be holding its breath.
Finally, Wen Guozhen spoke.
“Do you know why you were summoned?”
His voice was calm, measured and devoid of any emotions.
The same voice he used when discussing matters of state.
Yet somehow, that calmness frightened Qingli more than Zhao Meilin’s anger.
Because her father’s anger was rare, but when it appeared, it was always devastating.
Qingli lowered her gaze.
“No, Father.”
The title felt unfamiliar on her tongue.
Wen Guozhen’s eyes remained fixed on her and the silence stretched.
Heavy and oppressive.
Qingli remained kneeling, her back straight despite the growing knot of dread in her stomach.
Above her, Zhao Meilin’s gaze was sharp enough to draw blood.
“You left.”
The words broke the silence.
Not a question.
Not an accusation.
A statement.
Simple and undeniable.
Qingli lowered her eyes.
“Yes.”
Her answer was quiet.
Respectful.
There was no point denying it.
For several moments, Zhao Meilin simply stared at her before a cold laugh escaped the woman.
The sound sent a chill through the room.
“Interesting.”
The lady of the house leaned back slightly in her chair, studying Qingli as though seeing her for the first time.
“For twenty-two years, you barely spoke above a whisper. You followed every rule placed before you. You remained exactly where you were told.” Her gaze hardened.
“And now you are sneaking out of the residence.”
The accusation struck harder than Qingli expected.
Not because it was untrue, but because there was something profoundly ironic about hearing it spoken aloud.
Twenty-two years.
Twenty-two years of confinement.
Twenty-two years spent behind locked gates.
Twenty-two years of being hidden away like something shameful.
Twenty-two years of being forgotten.
Ignored.
Overlooked.
And yet the moment she stepped beyond those walls for a couple of times, it was treated as an unforgivable betrayal.
Qingli lowered her head further.
“Yes.”
The single word had barely left her lips when Zhao Meilin’s expression darkened.
“Do not answer me with a single word.”
The sharpness in her voice cracked through the hall like a whip and several servants visibly flinched.
“Explain yourself.”
Silence followed as Qingli hesitated.
What explanation could she possibly give?
That she had wanted to breathe?
That she had wanted to see the sky beyond the walls of the western courtyard?
That for the first time in her life she had found a place where she wasn’t treated as an embarrassment?
That beneath a grove of peach blossoms, she had briefly felt free?
None of those answers would matter.
None of them would be understood.
So she chose the truth…or at least parts of it.
“I went into the mountains to gather herbs.”
Zhao Meilin’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“And?”
Qingli’s fingers tightened within her sleeves as the memory of the grove flashed through her mind.
The abandoned shrine.
The scent of peach blossoms.
Dark eyes watching her from beneath flowering branches.
She pushed the memories aside and her mother continues to question her.
“You climbed over the wall.”
“Yes.”
“You left the residence without permission.”
“Yes.”
“You abandoned the western courtyard.”
“Yes.”
The admissions continued, one after another.
Calm.
Steady.
Unwavering.
No excuses.
No attempts to justify herself.
No desperate pleas for forgiveness.
Each answer only seemed to fuel Zhao Meilin’s fury.
The woman’s face grew colder with every response.
The atmosphere in the hall tightened until it felt difficult to breathe.
Then suddenly— This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Bang!
Zhao Meilin slammed her palm against the table, and the sound exploded through the room.
Servants lowered their heads further as Qingli flinched.
Even Youru startled slightly.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?”
The question rang through the hall.
For the first time since entering the room, Qingli lifted her head.
Slowly.
Calmly.
Her eyes met Zhao Meilin’s.
And quietly she answered,
“Yes.”
The simple response startled everyone.
Because there was no fear.
No trembling.
No apology.
Just certainty.
For the first time in her life, Qingli did not regret leaving.
Not for a single moment.
Not the climb over the wall beneath the cover of darkness.
Not the long walks through the mountains.
Not the abandoned shrine hidden among the peach blossoms.
Not the stranger she had saved.
Not the conversations that had stretched from morning until sunset.
Not any of it.
Because in those moments, she had experienced something she had never been allowed before.
Freedom.
Real freedom.
She had stood beneath endless skies instead of staring through barred windows.
She had wandered mountain paths without asking permission.
She had laughed without fear of being reprimanded.
She spoke openly without measuring every word.
She had been seen.
Not as an embarrassment.
Not as a burden.
Not as the hidden daughter of Wen Residence.
Simply as Qingli.
The memories rose unbidden within her heart of the sea of peach blossoms dancing beneath the spring breeze.
With golden sunlight filtering through flowering branches and the warmth of shared laughter.
The quiet comfort of sitting beside someone who expected nothing from her except honesty.
The feeling of looking toward tomorrow with anticipation instead of resignation.
They were small moments.
Ordinary moments.
Moments that most people would never think twice about.
Yet to Qingli, they were priceless, because they were hers.
And, no punishment could erase or tarnish them, and no locked gate could take them away.
Wen Residence had taken many things from her over the years.
Her childhood.
Her freedom.
Her place within the family.
Her right to be acknowledged.
But they could never take those memories.
They could never erase the sight of peach blossoms drifting through the sunlight.
They could never erase the sound of his laughter.
They could never erase the feeling of her heart lifting every morning when she made her way toward the grove.
The main hall of Wen Residence was silent.
Not the gentle silence of the mountains, where the wind whispered through peach blossom branches and petals drifted lazily through the air.
Not the easy, comfortable silence Qingli had shared beneath the abandoned shrine, where words were unnecessary and simply sitting together had been enough.
This silence was different.
This silence had weight.
It pressed down upon the room like a storm waiting to break.
The vast hall seemed colder than before.
The expensive incense burning in the golden censers could not soften the atmosphere, nor could the afternoon sunlight filtering through the lattice windows.
The polished floors gleamed beneath her knees, and the towering pillars cast long shadows across the room.
Everything was grand.
Everything was beautiful.
Everything felt suffocating.
The servants lining the walls stood perfectly still, their heads lowered, careful not to draw attention to themselves.
Even they could sense the tension hanging in the air.
Wen Guozhen sat at the head of the room, his face unreadable.
Beside him, Zhao Meilin’s fury was obvious, and once again there was silence.
At last, Zhao Meilin rose from her seat.
The rustle of her embroidered robes echoed through the hall as they swept across the polished floor.
The movement alone was enough to make the atmosphere tighten.
The servants lowered their heads even further.
No one dared to speak.
No one dared to move.
The air seemed to grow colder with every step she took, and when she finally spoke, her voice was calm.
“Twenty lashes.”
The words fell like a blade.
A collective shudder passed through the hall as several servants visibly paled.
One maid nearly dropped the tea tray in her hands before catching herself at the last moment.
Outside the hall, where she had been forced to kneel throughout the interrogation, Lan Yue’s eyes widened in horror, and a gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Twenty.
Again.
The number echoed mercilessly in her mind.
After years of neglect, countless punishments, and everything Qingli had already endured.
Twenty lashes was not a light reprimand.
It was a severe punishment.
The kind designed to leave more than physical pain behind.
The kind meant to remind someone exactly where they stood.
And everyone in the hall knew it.
At Zhao Meilin’s command, a servant hurried forward carrying the disciplinary whip.
The hall fell even quieter as the leather strands hung heavily from the servant’s hands, a familiar sight to everyone present.
Qingli’s gaze settled on the whip for only a moment before she looked away.
A strange sense of calm washed over her.
Not because she was unafraid.
But because fear would change nothing.
Slowly, she closed her eyes, just for a moment, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw peach blossoms dancing in the spring wind.
She saw sunlight filtering through flowering branches, and she heard laughter and a warm voice teasing her beneath an open sky.
The memory lingered for a single precious heartbeat before Qingli opened her eyes once more, and the warmth disappeared, and the mountains vanished.
Instead, the grand hall of Wen Residence returned.
Cold.
Silent.
Unforgiving.
Qingli straightened her back, lifted her chin, and waited.
If she could survive twenty-two years within these walls…if she could survive the loneliness, the neglect, the countless reminders that she did not belong…then she could survive this again.
After all, pain was not new to her.
Disappointment was not new.
Punishment was not new.
They had shaped her childhood and followed her into adulthood.
Yet, she was still here.
Still breathing.
Still standing.
No matter how many times Wen Residence tried to break her and that thought settled quietly within her heart.
Steady.
Unshaken.
Like a small flame refusing to be extinguished.
Because whatever happened today, they could take her freedom, her comfort, and scar her body.
But they could never take away the precious memories of when she had truly lived, and somehow that made enduring this a little easier.
The first lash fell, and a sharp crack split the silence of the hall.
Pain erupted across Qingli’s back, hot and blinding.
Her body flinched instinctively, the force of the blow stealing her breath for a moment, but no sound escaped her lips.
She remained kneeling as the second strike came before the pain from the first had faded.
Then the third.
The fourth.
Each lash landed with merciless precision, the sound of leather striking flesh echoing against the high walls of the hall, and the rhythm became unbearable.
Relentless.
Unforgiving.
A punishment measured not only in pain but in humiliation.
Several servants lowered their heads, unable to continue watching, while others turned away entirely.
One young maid quietly wiped tears from her eyes before anyone could notice.
Yet the punishment continued.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Qingli’s hands tightened within her lap, which is the only outward sign of her suffering.
By the tenth lash, dark stains had begun to spread across the back of her robes, and the pale fabric clung to her skin.
Each movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating through her body.
Still, she did not cry out.
Still, she did not beg.
Still, she remained kneeling.
By the fifteenth lash, the world had begun to blur at the edges, and the hall swayed slightly before her eyes.
The faces surrounding her became indistinct shapes.
The pain was everywhere now.
Burning.
Throbbing.
Unrelenting.
Yet somehow, she remained upright with her back straight and her head unbowed.
Enduring.
Just as she always had.
Because endurance was something Qingli had learned long ago.
Long before the whip.
Long before today.
Long before anyone in this hall had noticed her existence.
It was the one thing Wen Residence had taught her well.
Outside the hall, Lan Yue could no longer hold back her tears as they streamed freely down her face as she watched the punishment unfold.
Every crack of the whip felt like a blade twisting into her chest.
Every strike made her flinch.
Every strike made her want to scream.
By the tenth lash, she was already sobbing.
By the fifteenth, she could barely breathe.
“Stop!”
The cry tore from her throat.
Raw.
Desperate.
Several servants glanced toward her, but no one moved or intervened.
Inside the hall, the whip rose and fell once more, and Lan Yue struggled violently against the servants restraining her.
“Stop!”
Her voice broke as the servants holding her tightened their grip, but she fought anyway.
Kicked.
Pulled.
Twisted.
Anything to get free, anything to reach Qingli.
“Please!”
Tears blurred her vision.
“Please stop!”
The words echoed through the courtyard.
Desperate.
Heartbroken.
Useless.
No one listened, and Zhao Meilin remained seated while Wen Guozhen said nothing.
The servants lowered their eyes as the punishment continued.
Another crack.
Another lash.
Another stain of blood spreads across Qingli’s robes.
Lan Yue’s knees finally gave out beneath her, and she collapsed onto the stone ground, sobbing openly as her hands and entire body shook.
Because she had seen this before.
Again and again.
Over the years.
Different punishments.
Different reasons.
The same result.
And every single time, Qingli endured it alone.
The realization broke something inside her.
Across the hall, Qingli remained kneeling.
Silent.
Steady.
As though she could not hear the cries.
As though she could not see Lan Yue’s tears.
But the truth was far crueler because she heard every word, plea, and desperate cry.
The twentieth lash finally fell as the crack of the whip echoed through the hall one last time before fading into silence.
The kind that settled over a room after something cruel had already been done, and for several long moments, no one moved or spoke.
The steward slowly lowered the whip with trembling hands.
Qingli remained kneeling even after the punishment was completed.
Blood stained the back of her robes, the fabric torn in several places.
Her face had gone pale, and a fine sheen of sweat covered her brow.
Every breath came carefully now, measured through the pain threatening to drag her under.
Yet somehow, she remained upright.
As she always did.
The sight made several servants lower their heads in shame while others looked away entirely as they were unable to bear it, or see it.
Then Zhao Meilin spoke.
“Lock her in the cold storage warehouse.”
The words fell into the silence like a death sentence, and the reaction was immediate as several servants looked up in shock.
Even the steward froze with genuine disbelief on his face.
“Madam…”
The word slipped out before he could stop himself, and he silenced himself and lowered his head to the floor the moment Zhao Meilin turned her gaze toward him.
Zhao Meilin’s expression remained cold and unmoved.
“The old cold storage warehouse.”
The clarification made the blood drain from several faces.
Outside the hall, Lan Yue went completely white.
For a moment she looked as though she had forgotten how to breathe.
Then she shook her head.
“No.”
The word escaped as a whisper.
“No.”
Suddenly, she broke free from the servants holding her and stumbled forward, and before anyone could stop her, she dropped to her knees.
The impact echoed through the hall.
“Please.”
Her voice cracked immediately as tears streamed down her face unchecked, but she barely noticed as her gaze remained fixed on Zhao Meilin.
“Madam, please.”
No response.
Lan Yue’s hands trembled as she pressed her forehead against the floor.
“Miss needs treatment.”
Silence.
“Her wounds need to be cleaned.”
Nothing.
“She’s injured.”
Still nothing.
The indifference was almost worse than anger, and Lan Yue’s voice broke completely.
“Please…”
The word dissolved into a sob.
For years, she had endured every insult thrown her way.
Every humiliation.
Every punishment.
She had swallowed her pride again and again for Qingli’s sake.
But this—
This was different because this could kill her, and everyone in the room knew it.
Lan Yue lowered herself completely to the floor and pressed her forehead against the cold stone.
A position of complete submission and foregoing the last thing a servant possessed.
Her dignity.
And she offered even that, desperately begging and pleading.
“Please show mercy.”
However, the hall remained silent, and only the sound of Lan Yue’s quiet sobbing filled the room.
And through it all, Zhao Meilin’s expression never changed.
“Take her away.”
Zhao Meilin’s voice was cold as she turned away and walked back to her seat.
For several moments, no one moved.
Then, reluctantly, two servants stepped forward.
Not one of them could bring themselves to meet Qingli’s eyes.
Carefully, they helped her to her feet…or rather, they tried.
The moment Qingli shifted her weight, pain exploded across her back, and her vision darkened briefly.
A sharp breath escaped her lips despite her efforts to suppress it.
The wounds left by the whip burned with every movement.
Blood had soaked through the fabric of her robes, staining them a deep crimson.
Even standing required more strength than she possessed.
Yet she made no complaint.
No protest.
No plea.
The servants supported her as they guided her from the hall.
Behind her, Lan Yue’s sobs continued.
Broken.
Desperate.
Growing fainter with every step.
However, Qingli never turned around because she couldn’t.
Partly because of the pain.
Partly because she knew if she saw Lan Yue’s face, she might finally break.
And she could not allow herself that.
Not here.
Not before them.
The long corridors of Wen Residence stretched endlessly before her, and the journey felt strangely distant.
It was as if she were moving through a dream; however, the pain remained, and the humiliation remained.
Yet her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Far from Wen Residence.
Far from the cold eyes watching her suffer.
Far from the walls that had imprisoned her for most of her life.
They drifted toward a grove of peach blossoms hidden deep within the mountains, toward sunlight filtering through flowering branches, toward the petals dancing in the spring breeze, and towards warm, genuine, and unrestrained laughter.
The memory felt impossibly distant now, like something from another life.
Yet it remained bright and untouchable.
She remembered sitting beneath the peach trees, remembering the easy conversations that stretched from morning until sunset.
Remembering the feeling, for the first time, that she was more than the forgotten daughter of Wen Residence.
More than a burden and more than an embarrassment, hidden away from the world.
And somehow…the memories made the pain easier to endure.
Not because they erased it.
They didn’t because every step still hurt and every breath still stung.
But they reminded her that another world existed beyond these walls.
A world where she had laughed.
A world where she had been happy.
A world where she had been seen.
The image that lingered most clearly was his face.
The handsome stranger beneath the peach blossoms.
The amused look in his eyes whenever she argued with him.
The warmth of his smile.
The way his voice softened when he spoke to her.
And the quiet words that were spoken.
If fate allows…
perhaps we’ll meet again.
The memory settled gently within her heart, giving her a small source of warmth against the cold gathering around her.
Eventually, they reached the abandoned warehouse.
The old building stood at the far edge of the estate, separated from the main residence by overgrown pathways and neglected gardens.
Even in daylight, it looked forgotten.
The wooden walls were weathered with age, several roof tiles were missing, and the windows had long since been shut.
One of the servants hesitated before opening the door, and the rusted hinges groaned in protest.
A wave of cold, stale air spilled outward, and then the smell of dust and decay followed.
Neither servant spoke, and together they helped Qingli into the dark, nearly empty room.
Broken crates and abandoned shelves lined the walls, their outlines barely visible beneath layers of neglect, and the air felt damp.
Cold.
Heavy.
The kind of cold that seeped slowly into bones and lingered.
One servant swallowed hard while the other looked away; both seemed uncomfortable leaving her there.
But neither dared disobey orders.
A moment later, they stepped outside and closed the door.
The sound echoed through the warehouse, and then came the heavy scrape of the bolt being secured from the outside.
Silence followed.
Complete.
Absolute.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Only thin slivers of fading daylight slipped through the cracks in the old wooden walls.
The temperature dropped almost immediately as cold air crept through every gap in the structure.
Dust floated lazily through the shadows, and for a long time, Qingli remained where they had left her.
Alone.
Motionless.
Listening to the silence.
Just yesterday, she had been surrounded by sunlight, laughter, and blooming peach blossoms.
For the first time since returning to Wen Residence, Qingli felt truly alone again, and somehow, that loneliness hurt far more than the lashes ever could.
Outside, Lan Yue sat beside the locked warehouse door.
She had been ordered to leave.
Twice.
Several servants had tried to persuade her, and one had even attempted to pull her away.
Lan Yue ignored them all and remained where she was, curled against the weathered wooden wall, her back pressed against the cold door separating her from Qingli.
As though her presence alone could somehow lessen the loneliness waiting on the other side.
The evening gradually deepened into night, and one by one, the lights throughout House Wen were extinguished.
The estate grew quiet.
Still, Lan Yue did not move.
She refused to leave.
Refused to sleep.
Refused to abandon her.
The cold seeped through her robes, numbing her hands and feet.
The stone beneath her was hard and unforgiving, and exhaustion weighed heavily on her body after a day spent crying and pleading.
None of it mattered.
Because Qingli was inside.
Alone.
Injured.
Locked away like a criminal.
The thought made fresh tears sting her eyes.
Lan Yue lowered her head and pressed her forehead against the rough wooden door.
The wood was cold.
Cold enough to make her shiver.
Which only made her imagine how much colder it must be inside.
“Miss…”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
No response came.
The walls were too thick.
The distance too great.
Still, she continued speaking.
As though Qingli might somehow hear her.
“I’m here.”
The words trembled as they left her lips.
“I’m not leaving.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks once more.
She wiped them away angrily.
Only for more to follow.
“I know you’re probably worried about me sitting out here.”
A weak laugh escaped her.
Broken and watery.
“But I’m worried about you.”
Her fingers curled against the wood.
For years, it had always been the two of them.
Qingli.
Lan Yue.
Two people were forgotten by the rest of the residents.
Two people surviving together.
Whenever Qingli was punished, Lan Yue waited.
Whenever Qingli was sick, Lan Yue stayed.
Whenever Qingli cried as a child, Lan Yue sat beside her until the tears stopped.
She had never left before.
She wasn’t about to start now.
The night wind stirred through the neglected courtyard, and Lan Yue pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
Then settled back against the door.
Waiting.
Watching.
Guarding.
The way she always had.
As though she could somehow stand between Qingli and the cruelty of the world.
Hours passed.
The moon climbed higher into the sky.
The cold grew sharper.
Yet Lan Yue remained where she was.
A small, stubborn figure sitting outside an abandoned warehouse.
Refusing to move.
Refusing to rest.
Refusing to leave someone she loved alone in the darkness.
Because everyone else in Wen Residence might have forgotten Qingli.
But Lan Yue never would.