Morning sunlight poured through the blinds like threads of gold.
The smell of disinfectant still lingered faintly, but the air inside the hospital room already felt lighter, as if someone had opened a window after a storm.
Gu Ze Yan stood beside the bed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding her discharge papers. "You're clear to go home."
His voice was calm, almost casual, but the tightness in his shoulders betrayed the weight he'd carried these past weeks.
Qing Yun folded her scarf, tying it loosely around her neck.
When she rose, the world swayed just a little. Ze Yan caught her elbow without a word.
"I came in broken," she murmured, eyes drifting toward the pale corridor outside.
He smiled faintly. "And you're leaving stronger."
"Not whole," she corrected softly.
"Whole is overrated," he said. "Strong is enough."
They walked out together, hand in hand.
The nurses at the desk whispered good wishes as they passed—not gossip, not pity, just quiet kindness.
---
Home
The black car rolled through Liangcheng's winter streets, sunlight flashing across the windshield. When the gates of the Liangcheng Mansion opened, the guards bowed respectfully.
Inside, everything felt exactly the same yet completely different.
The faint scent of sandalwood. The polished wood floors reflecting morning light.
For the first time, the house felt alive again.
Aunt Liu appeared at the top of the steps, smiling wide enough to wrinkle her cheeks. "Miss Lin—oh, forgive me—Madam Gu, welcome home."
Qing Yun blinked, amused. "You can still call me Miss Lin."
Ze Yan shook his head. "You'll confuse the staff."
Aunt Liu fussed over her, leading her toward the dining room where a simple lunch awaited: millet porridge, steamed vegetables, slices of winter pear.
Ze Yan poured the porridge himself. "Eat slowly."
Qing Yun frowned. "You're treating me like porcelain again."
"No," he said, stirring the bowl. "Porcelain breaks easier than you."
She laughed, a quiet sound that startled them both.
He watched her eat as if it were the most important thing in the world.
---
Jiù Mèng Xuān
A week later, she returned to Jiù Mèng Xuān by the river.
The winter air carried the faint scent of ink and sandalwood; inside, sunlight washed over ancient scrolls waiting for repair.
Master Shen Huai Zhen lifted his head from his magnifying lamp. "You look human again," he said, eyes twinkling.
"I'm officially your apprentice now," Qing Yun replied, bowing lightly. "Time to earn the title."
He led her to a worktable covered in fragments of a Tang-dynasty poem scroll—edges charred, silk threads blackened.
"Fire damage," he said. "Perfect for you. It survived flame but still remembers beauty."
Qing Yun smiled faintly and began to work.
Under her steady hands, the brush traced thin lines of paste, connecting paper fibers one by one.
Master Shen watched quietly for a while before saying,
"Perfection is sterile. Leave the wound; that's where truth breathes."
She nodded. "Scars tell the story."
The two worked in silence, only the soft rustle of paper between them, like whispers of old poems returning to life.
---
Evenings in Liangcheng
Nights at the mansion settled into rhythm.
Ze Yan worked in his study; Qing Yun sat across from him with her restoration books open.
Sometimes he glanced up to see her brows slightly furrowed, lips curved in concentration—the most peaceful sight he knew.
At midnight, she would tug his sleeve. "Enough. Go to bed."
He pretended to resist until she took his pen away.
They walked the corridor barefoot, house lights dimmed.
She made him warm milk; he teased her for acting like a grandmother.
In bed, they lay facing each other, the silence soft as breath.
No grand declarations, just the steady pulse of being alive together.
---
Letter to Si Yao
One evening, Qing Yun sat by the window. Outside, the garden lanterns glowed faintly, their light trembling on the pond's surface.
She opened a plain sheet of rice paper and began to write.
> "Si Yao,
I think you'd laugh if you saw me now.
I don't chase storms anymore. I mend what's left behind.
He's here—calm, stubborn, alive. You'd like him. He keeps his promises.
I used to think love meant carrying everything until it crushed me.
Maybe it just means walking side by side."
Her handwriting wavered once, but she didn't stop.
When finished, she folded the letter neatly and slipped it between the pages of an old restoration manual. Not to send—just to keep.
---
The Scroll
Days later at Jiù Mèng Xuān, the Tang poem scroll was finally complete.
The repaired silk shimmered under afternoon light, faint traces of the burn still visible, beautiful in their imperfection.
Master Shen stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back.
"You've learned well," he said softly. "Scars that don't fade are proof of living."
Qing Yun smiled. "Then I'll leave them, exactly as they are."
Behind them, a familiar voice answered, low and steady.
"Seems both of you agree," Ze Yan said, leaning against the doorframe.
Qing Yun turned, startled but smiling. "You're early."
"I couldn't wait."
He walked closer, eyes tracing the scroll, then her face.
"Ready to go home?"
She looked at the finished piece, at its healed seams glowing beneath the lamp.
"I already am," she said.
He reached out his hand. She took it.
---
Evening Light
They stepped outside together.
The river wind carried the smell of winter wood smoke and ink.
Behind them, the signboard of 旧梦轩 – Studio of Old Dreams glowed softly in the dusk.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Ze Yan said, "Next time, no one will take it from us."
Qing Yun squeezed his fingers. "There won't be a next time."
They walked on, their shadows merging into the amber light, the world quiet at last.
---