The illness came like a shadow that spreads silently among the dawn flowers. At first, there were subtle signs: the cheek losing its color, rest becoming restless, a weaker cry that failed to break through the silk curtain. Then, within hours, the fragility became evident: Xiaolian wouldn't wake to the warm call of light, her hands were small with the cold of mist, and her chest rose and fell with the effort of one who doubts whether to continue breathing.
The White Crane Palace—usually filled with contained laughter, measured steps, and the whispers of ladies-in-waiting—became a mausoleum. The doors leading to the portico remained closed; the corridors echoed with footsteps that dared to be nothing more than echoes. Every voice crossing the antechamber became light, as if sound could break something not yet fully supported.
