She came to the bench before dawn.
The garden was dark, the paths invisible, the hedges black against a sky that had not yet begun to lighten. Liu Lanzhi sat where she always sat, her hands folded, her back straight, and waited.
The old woman appeared from the shadow of the hedge, her steps slow, her breathing labored. She looked older in the dark, smaller, the curve of her back more pronounced. She sat on the bench beside Liu Lanzhi and said nothing.
They sat in silence. The sky lightened slowly, black to grey, grey to pale gold. Somewhere in the palace, the servants were waking, the guards changing shifts. Here, in the forgotten corner of the garden, there was only silence and the slow light of dawn.
"The boy will come," the old woman said.
"Yes."
"When he comes, you will breathe. You will be still. You will let him hold your hand, and you will not move. You will be the thing that does not change. The thing that does not react. The thing that waits."
