The first light of dawn spilled over the tiled roof of Meridian Pavilion, catching the edge of the wooden screen fragment in Lin Wan's hands. She'd spent the better part of the night tracing its carved peony pattern with her fingertips, the wood still carrying the faint scent of sandalwood—her mother's favorite fragrance. The fragment fit perfectly into the palm of her hand, its edges worn smooth by years of touch, and when she pressed it against the half-moon jade pendant around her neck, a soft, golden glow rippled between them, like water meeting its reflection.
"Something's wrong," she murmured, tilting the fragment to catch the light. The peony's petals weren't just carved—they were stitched into the wood with threads so fine they were nearly invisible, threads that shimmered with the same silver sheen as Shen Yan's frost-thread coat. She'd seen that sheen before, in the moonlight silk her mother had left behind, but this was different—colder, sharper, as if woven from winter itself.
A low cough from the corner of the pavilion pulled her from her thoughts. Shen Yan had stayed through the night, leaning against the doorframe with his eyes closed, his dagger resting on his knee. He'd refused to explain why he'd appeared just in time to drive off the thread-eater's minion, or why his grandmother's name had made Auntie Qin's eyes widen, but he'd insisted on standing guard, his posture tense as if expecting another attack.
"You've been staring at that fragment for hours," he said, his voice rough with sleep. When he opened his eyes, the gray irises glinted like frost on stone. "What does it show you?"
Lin Wan hesitated. She didn't trust him—not yet—but the fragment and the pendant's reaction suggested they were bound by something deeper than coincidence. She held out both objects, the golden glow fading as they separated. "The threads on the fragment match your coat. Auntie Qin said your grandmother gave my mother the moonlight silk. What aren't you telling me?"
Shen Yan's jaw tightened. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, identical jade pendant—its curve the mirror image of Lin Wan's, forming a full moon when the two were pressed together. The moment their pendants touched, the screen fragment erupted in a burst of silver light, projecting a shadowy image onto the pavilion's wall: two women sitting at a embroidery frame, their hands moving in perfect sync, stitching a peony that seemed to bloom as they worked.
"That's my grandmother," Shen Yan said, nodding at the taller woman, whose coat was stitched with frost threads. "And that's your mother. They were partners—for a time."
The image shifted, showing the two women hiding the screen fragment and the split pendant in a secret compartment of the Su Workshop. "They created the counter-patterns together, to fight the thread-eater," he continued. "But the thread-eater feeds on broken memories, and it learned to twist the ones we hold most dear. My grandmother betrayed yours—stole half the counter-patterns, and left her to face the thread-eater alone."
Lin Wan's breath caught. The memory of her mother's empty studio, the red threads coiled like blood on the floor, suddenly made sense. "Why would she do that?"
"Fear," Shen Yan said, his voice quiet. "The thread-eater promised to spare her family if she betrayed your mother. But it lied. My grandmother died a year later, her memories devoured by the very creature she tried to bargain with. Before she died, she made me swear to find you—to return the pendant, and to finish what they started."
Before Lin Wan could respond, a sharp knock echoed through the pavilion, followed by a voice so trembling it barely carried: "Please… I need your help."
She tucked the pendant and fragment into her silk pouch, then crossed to the door. Standing on the steps was a young woman, no older than twenty, her dress stained with mud, her hair tangled with leaves. She held a small embroidery hoop, its fabric frayed and yellowed, and her eyes were red from crying. "I'm Elara," she said. "My sister, Lila, disappeared three days ago. The last thing she left was this."
She held out the hoop. Inside was a half-stitched swan, its wings woven with threads that shimmered like water—but Lin Wan recognized the faint, sickly red glow beneath them. Thread-eater patterns.
"Your sister was trying to mend a memory," Lin Wan said, her stomach sinking. "The thread-eater's threads are in the embroidery. They've bound her to whatever memory she was chasing."
Elara's knees buckled. "We were inseparable as children. We used to stitch swans together—she said they symbolized forever. But a month ago, she started having nightmares. She said she couldn't remember our mother's face, no matter how hard she tried. She found your pavilion online, said you could help her get the memory back. I tried to stop her, but she left in the middle of the night…"
Lin Wan exchanged a glance with Shen Yan. The timing was too convenient—another memory tied to the thread-eater, right after they'd uncovered the pendant's secret. It felt like a trap.
But Elara's tears were real, and the fear in her eyes mirrored Lin Wan's own when she'd lost her mother. "I can try to find her," Lin Wan said. "But the thread-eater's patterns are stronger than the last one. This will cost more than a small memory, Elara. It will cost you something you cherish."
Elara's hand tightened around the hoop. "I'd give anything to get Lila back. Even… even the memory of our mother's lullaby. It's the only thing I have left of her, but if it saves Lila, it's worth it."
Lin Wan led her to the worktable, spreading the hoop flat. The swan's threads hummed with a low, menacing vibration, and when she touched them, a jolt of cold shot up her arm—nothing like the warm energy of Auntie Qin's peony. This memory was broken, twisted by the thread-eater's hunger.
She threaded her needle with moonlight silk, but as she prepared to stitch, Shen Yan grabbed her wrist. "Wait," he said, his eyes fixed on the swan. "That's not a regular memory. It's a trap. The thread-eater didn't just bind your sister to it—it's using her as bait. When you start stitching, it will come for both of you."
Lin Wan pulled her wrist away. "I can't leave her. Not like my mother was left."
She drove the needle into the fabric. The moonlight silk glowed golden, but the thread-eater's red threads erupted in a snarl, wrapping around the hoop like a cage. Elara screamed as the image of the swan blurred, replaced by a shadowy figure with eyes like empty sockets—Lila, her face contorted in pain, her body tangled in red threads.
"Help me," Lila's voice echoed, distorted by static. "It's eating me… piece by piece…"
Lin Wan worked faster, stitching the Peony Facing the Sun pattern over the swan, but the red threads fought back, tearing at the moonlight silk. Her chest burned as the cost of the repair hit her—memories of her own mother singing lullabies, of the way she'd laughed when Lin Wan first held a needle, vanished like smoke. She stumbled backward, gasping for breath, and Shen Yan caught her before she fell.
"The fragment," he shouted over the roar of the red threads. "Use the fragment!"
Lin Wan fumbled for the wooden screen piece, pressing it against the hoop. The silver threads on the fragment blazed to life, weaving into the moonlight silk, creating a new pattern—one that merged the peony's warmth with the frost's sharpness. The red threads shrieked, dissolving into ash, and the image of Lila cleared. She was lying on the floor of an abandoned warehouse, the same warehouse where Lin Wan's mother's studio had been.
"The warehouse on Maple Street," Lin Wan said, her voice shaking. "That's where she is."
Elara ran for the door, but as she reached it, she froze. Her eyes turned black, and a cold, familiar voice escaped her lips—one that Lin Wan had heard in her nightmares, the voice of the thread-eater.
"Thank you, little inheritor," it purred. "You've led me straight to the other half of the screen. And when I have both fragments, I'll devour every memory in this city—starting with yours."
Elara lunged, her fingers curved like claws, but Shen Yan stepped in front of Lin Wan, his dagger slicing through the air. A burst of frost erupted from his coat, freezing Elara's limbs mid-movement. The thread-eater's presence fled, leaving Elara unconscious on the floor.
Shen Yan turned to Lin Wan, his chest heaving. "We have to get to the warehouse. The thread-eater is already there, looking for the other fragment. And if it finds it before we do…"
He didn't finish, but Lin Wan knew. The thread-eater would unlock the full power of the screen, and no memory—no joy, no love, no legacy—would be safe.
She grabbed her needle and the screen fragment, slipping the pendant around her neck. The full moon of the two pendants pressed against her chest, warm now, as if guiding her. "Then let's go."
As they carried Elara out of the pavilion, the dawn sun broke through the clouds, gilding the streets of the city. But Lin Wan could feel the thread-eater's cold gaze on her back, and she knew that the real fight—for her mother's legacy, for her own memories, for the very thing that made them human—had only just begun.