For three days, Qingli drifted in and out of consciousness.
The fever refused to break.
Not after the physician came.
Not after bowl after bowl of bitter medicine was forced past her lips.
Not after Nanny Zhao spent every waking hour changing compresses, cleaning wounds, and watching the rise and fall of Qingli’s chest with quiet desperation.
Not even after Lan Yue planted herself beside the bed and nearly refused to move.
The fever remained.
Relentless.
Stubborn.
Much like Qingli herself.
The western courtyard had fallen into a tense, exhausted silence.
The windows were kept slightly open to let the heat escape, but the early spring air did little to cool the warmth radiating from Qingli’s body.
The scent of medicine lingered heavily in the room, bitter and sharp, mingling with the faint coppery trace of blood beneath fresh bandages.
Lan Yue sat beside the bed, holding a damp cloth between both hands.
She looked terrible.
Her eyes were swollen from crying.
Dark circles had appeared beneath them, deepening with every sleepless night.
Her hair, usually tied neatly, had loosened into a messy knot, with stray strands falling across her pale face.
Even her voice had grown hoarse from calling Qingli’s name again and again, hoping each time that Qingli would answer.
But still, she stayed.
She dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out with trembling fingers, and gently placed it across Qingli’s burning forehead.
“Miss,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly.
“You have to wake up soon.”
Qingli did not respond.
Her lashes rested against her pale cheeks, her breathing shallow and uneven.
Every so often, her brows would draw together, as though even in unconsciousness, the pain still followed her.
Lan Yue bit her lip hard.
A moment later, the door opened softly.
Nanny Zhao entered carrying another bowl of medicine.
One glance at Lan Yue’s face made the old woman sigh.
“You need rest.”
Lan Yue shook her head immediately.
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Nanny Zhao’s brows drew together.
“You’ve said that twenty times.”
“I’ll say it twenty more.”
“Yue’er.”
“I’m not leaving.”
The old woman looked at her for a long moment.
Lan Yue’s eyes remained fixed on Qingli.
Her hands curled tightly around the damp cloth in her lap.
“If I leave and she wakes up alone…” Her voice faltered.
She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue.
“If she opens her eyes and no one is here, she’ll think we left her too.”
Nanny Zhao’s expression softened.
Lan Yue blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall again.
“She’s always alone, Nanny,” she whispered.
“Everyone in this house makes sure of it.”
The room fell quiet.
Only Qingli’s uneven breathing filled the silence between them.
Lan Yue lowered her gaze, her voice trembling with exhaustion and fear.
“So someone has to stay.”
For a moment, Nanny Zhao could not speak.
Despite all of Lan Yue’s complaints, despite her dramatic sighs and sharp tongue, despite the way she scolded Qingli for worrying her and fussed over every small injury as though the world were ending—
Lan Yue loved Qingli more fiercely than anyone else in House Wen.
Perhaps more than anyone had ever allowed themselves to love her.
The old woman slowly set the medicine bowl down beside the bed.
Then she reached out and gently smoothed a loose strand of hair away from Lan Yue’s face.
“You foolish girl,” she murmured, though her voice was thick with emotion.
Lan Yue tried to smile.
It trembled and failed.
Nanny Zhao sat down beside her and picked up the medicine bowl.
“Then we’ll stay together.”
Lan Yue looked at her.
Nanny Zhao’s gaze shifted to Qingli, lying pale and feverish beneath the blankets.
Her expression hardened with quiet resolve.
“We’ll stay until she wakes.”
Lan Yue’s tears finally slipped free.
This time, she did not wipe them away.
She only nodded, then reached for Qingli’s hand beneath the blanket and held it carefully between both of hers.
“Miss,” she whispered again, softer this time.
“We’re here.”
Qingli remained unconscious.
But Lan Yue held on anyway.
As though, through sheer stubbornness alone, she could keep Qingli anchored to the world.
Sometime in the middle of the night, while the rest of House Wen lay silent beneath the darkness, a faint voice broke through the quiet of the room.
“Yue’er…”
Lan Yue froze.
For a moment, she thought she had imagined it.
She had been sitting beside the bed, half-bent over Qingli’s hand, fighting against the exhaustion threatening to drag her under.
The candle beside her had nearly burned down to the base, and the room was filled with the bitter scent of herbs as Nanny Zhao stood near the small stove brewing another bowl of medicine.
Then the voice came again.
So faint.
So weak.
But unmistakably Qingli’s.
The medicine bowl nearly slipped from Nanny Zhao’s hands.
Qingli’s eyes had opened.
Barely.
Her lashes trembled against her pale cheeks, and her gaze was unfocused, clouded with fever and exhaustion.
But her eyes were open.
She was awake.
For one breathless moment, no one moved.
Then Lan Yue broke.
“Miss!”
The cry tore from her throat as she lunged forward, tears spilling down her face before she could stop them.
Again.
She had cried so much over the past few days that she thought there couldn’t possibly be any tears left.
Apparently, she had been wrong.
Qingli blinked slowly, as though trying to bring the room into focus.
Her lips were dry, her voice barely more than a whisper when she asked, “Why are you crying?”
Lan Yue stared at her.
Then, despite the tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked deeply offended.
“Why am I crying?” she repeated, her voice cracking.
“Miss, you nearly died.”
Qingli seemed to consider this with great seriousness.
Then she murmured, “I don’t think I did.”
Lan Yue’s mouth fell open.
Nanny Zhao closed her eyes briefly, as if asking the heavens for patience.
“You absolutely did,” Lan Yue said.
Qingli blinked again.
“I was only unconscious.”
“For three days!”
“That does sound longer than I expected.”
“Longer than you expected?” Lan Yue nearly choked.
“Miss, your fever wouldn’t break, you wouldn’t wake up, and every time we tried to give you medicine, you turned your head away like a stubborn child.”
Qingli’s brows drew together faintly.
“I don’t remember that.”
“I do!”
Her outrage was so immediate, so familiar, that something in the room shifted.
The fear that had suffocated the western courtyard for three days loosened.
Just a little.
Because only Qingli would wake from a dangerous fever, pale as paper and barely able to keep her eyes open, and still begin debating the details of whether or not she had nearly died.
Nanny Zhao let out a sound before she could stop herself.
A laugh.
Soft.
Shaky.
Disbelieving.
The sound startled everyone.
Including herself.
Lan Yue turned to stare at her.
Nanny Zhao looked equally surprised, as though she had forgotten she still knew how.
Then her eyes reddened.
She stepped closer to the bed and gently touched Qingli’s forehead.
Still warm.
But not burning the way it had before.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she brushed Qingli’s hair away from her face.
“You foolish child,” she whispered, though her voice was thick with relief.
“You frightened us.”
Qingli looked between them, her gaze still weak but clearer now.
“I’m sorry.”
Lan Yue immediately wiped at her tears with the back of her hand.
“No.”
Qingli blinked.
Lan Yue leaned closer, her voice trembling but firm.
“No more apologizing. Not tonight.”
Qingli was silent for a moment.
Then, very faintly, the corner of her mouth lifted.
“All right.”
It was such a small smile.
So fragile.
So tired.
But it was there.
Lan Yue began crying harder.
Qingli stared at her helplessly.
“I thought you said no more crying.”
“I never agreed to that.”
Nanny Zhao laughed again.
This time, Lan Yue laughed too, though it came out broken and tangled with tears.
And for the first time in days, the room no longer felt like a place waiting for grief.
The candles still burned low.
The medicine still smelled bitter.
Qingli was still weak, injured, and far from healed.
But she was awake.
She was speaking.
She was arguing with Lan Yue.
And somehow, that was enough.
For the first time in three long days, hope returned to the western courtyard.
Later that evening, after Qingli fell asleep again, Lan Yue quietly sat beside the window.
The moon hung high above the western courtyard.
Silver light spilled quietly across the stone path, softening the sharp edges of the walls that had caged Qingli for so many years.
For the first time in days, the night felt almost peaceful.
Lan Yue stood beneath the eaves, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she looked toward Qingli’s darkened room.
Inside, Qingli had finally fallen asleep again.
Her fever had eased, her breathing had steadied, and though her body was still weak, she was no longer slipping away from them.
Lan Yue should have felt relieved.
She did.
Mostly.
But somewhere beneath that relief was anger.
Lingering.
Sharp.
Restless.
For reasons she could not quite explain, her thoughts drifted toward the peach blossom grove Qingli had spoken of.
The hidden place beyond the city.
The stranger beneath the trees.
The man Qingli had risked everything to save.
Lan Yue let out a long sigh.
“Whoever you are…”
Her voice was quiet, but the empty courtyard seemed to hear her clearly.
She lifted her gaze toward the moonlit sky, as though the mysterious stranger might somehow be listening from the other side of the capital.
“You better appreciate what Miss did for you.”
The breeze stirred the loose strands of hair around her face.
Lan Yue’s eyes narrowed.
Then, with complete seriousness, she raised one hand and pointed dramatically toward the stars.
“If you don’t,” she declared, “I’ll find you.”
The threat should have sounded ridiculous.
After all, she did not know his name.
She did not know his family.
She did not even know where he lived.
But somehow, beneath the moonlight, the warning sounded remarkably sincere.
Lan Yue lowered her hand and huffed.
“Handsome or not, mysterious or not, I don’t care. Miss nearly died because of all this.”
She glanced once more toward Qingli’s room, her expression softening with worry.
Then her jaw tightened again.
“So you had better be worth it.”
The courtyard fell silent.
Only the wind answered.
Still, Lan Yue remained where she stood, glaring up at the stars as though personally holding fate responsible.
And somewhere deep in her heart, she silently hoped that if Qingli ever met that man again, he would be someone worthy of the memories that had kept her smiling through pain.
Deep within the haze of fever, Qingli found herself standing beneath a sky of peach blossoms.
The grove stretched endlessly around her, awash in soft shades of pink and gold.
Petals drifted through the air like falling silk, carried by a gentle breeze that brushed against her skin with tender warmth.
Sunlight filtered through the flowering branches overhead, spilling across the earth in shifting patterns of light and shadow.
Everything was beautiful.
Everything was peaceful.
Everything felt safe.
For a moment, she simply stood there, letting the quiet wash over her.
Then she saw him.
A familiar figure stood beneath the largest peach tree, half-veiled by drifting petals and golden light.
She could not see his face clearly, and yet there was no uncertainty in her heart.
It was him.
The stranger.
The man who had entered her life like a storm and vanished just as suddenly.
The man who had never given her his name.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
They simply looked at one another across the grove, as though words were unnecessary in a place like this.
Then he smiled.
A rare smile.
Soft.
Warm.
The kind of smile she had only seen a handful of times, yet had somehow remembered with painful clarity.
The sight made something inside her chest tighten.
At first, she thought it was pain.
But it wasn’t.
It was longing.
The realization startled her.
Because she missed him.
Truly missed him.
Missed the quiet ease of his presence.
Missed the low warmth of his voice.
Missed the way sunlight had looked caught in the dark lines of his hair beneath the peach blossoms.
It made no sense.
She did not know his name.
She knew almost nothing about him.
Only fragments.
A guarded smile.
Sharp, watchful eyes.
A quiet strength.
A hidden gentleness he revealed only in unguarded moments.
And yet the feeling remained.
Warm.
Gentle.
Persistent.
Like the memory of sunlight lingering on her skin long after dusk had fallen.
Even in the depths of fever, even in dreams, her heart knew what her mind had not yet dared to confess.
She missed him.