The cold night was unusually silent.
No cicadas, no shifting of branches, not even the rustling of dry leaves. It was as if the entire Li estate had drawn in a breath and forgotten how to exhale.
Li Yun awoke with a start.
Sweat clung to his forehead. His heart pounded in his ears like a war drum. He had dreamt of the plum grove again—of his mother standing beneath the blossoms, her mouth moving soundlessly, eyes wide with warning.
The image wouldn't leave him.
He sat up and rubbed his temples, trying to push the chill from his skin. But something made him stop.
A shadow.
It moved just beyond his paper screen door, slow, smooth, deliberate.
Not a servant.
Not wind.
Someone—or something—was there.
Yun reached for the short blade beneath his pillow, the metal cold against his fingers. He stood, stepping silently toward the door, heart steady but alert.
He slid it open.
The corridor outside was empty.
But the air… it was colder here. Heavy with a scent he hadn't smelled in years—lavender and ash. The exact scent from his mother's old studio.
He followed it.
The halls stretched long and silent, and only the moonlight guided his steps. His bare feet made no sound against the polished wood. The trail led past the ancestral prayer room, down toward the disused west wing.
He hadn't been there since he was twelve.
No one had.
He stopped at the edge of the hall.
A single lantern flickered at the end of the corridor, right in front of a sealed wooden door—his mother's private studio. The one his father had ordered locked the day she died.
And kneeling before it… was Lady Shen.
She wore no outer robe, only a simple night dress, her hair unbound. In the dim light, she looked almost spectral, like a ghost pulled from the past.
She didn't look at him. Her hands rested gently on her lap, eyes fixed on the locked door.
Yun didn't move.
Finally, she spoke.
"This was where she painted," she said softly. "She never let anyone enter. But I used to hear her humming through the walls. Sometimes… she cried."
He stepped closer. "Why are you here now?"
"Because the dreams returned," she said. "The ones with her voice. Always whispering the same words: 'He doesn't know. He must know.'"
Yun's grip on the blade in his hand tightened.
"She's speaking to you too?" he asked.
Lady Shen nodded.
"I thought it was guilt," she continued. "But now… I think it's something else. A warning."
Yun looked down at the iron key in her hand. It was old. Familiar.
"I found it in her prayer box," she said, holding it out. "I wasn't ready to use it then. But you're back now. And maybe… it should be you."
He stared at the key, heart thudding.
Memories flooded back—his mother's laughter, the smell of ink, her gentle hands brushing through his hair.
He reached forward and took it.
The moment the cold metal touched his palm, the air shifted.
A soft wind blew down the corridor—no windows were open.
Lady Shen rose slowly, her expression unreadable.
"You don't have to go in tonight," she said. "But when you do… be prepared. She hid things. To protect you. And to protect herself."
"What kind of things?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The kind that make enemies within your own home."
Yun looked at the door.
It was plain, untouched since he was a child. But now it seemed heavier. As if opening it would unlock more than just forgotten canvases.
"She wrote letters," Lady Shen said suddenly. "Hundreds. Each one sealed with care. All of them addressed to you."
"Then why didn't I receive any?"
"Because someone didn't want you to."
Yun's breath caught in his throat.
He stepped forward and inserted the key.
The lock clicked.
Dust drifted from the seams of the door.
He paused, hand on the knob, unsure if he should turn it.
Then he did.
The scent hit him first—aged parchment, dried plum blossoms, and faint oil paint. The room was untouched. A time capsule.
Scrolls lined the shelves. Canvases leaned against the far wall, half-finished. An old guqin rested beneath the window, silent and cracked with age.
And on the desk—
A stack of letters.
Each one tied neatly in red thread.
Each one addressed to Li Yun.
He stepped forward, stunned.
His fingers trembled as he picked one up.
Lady Shen remained at the door, silent.
"I'll leave you to her," she said gently.
He didn't answer.
When she was gone, Yun sat at the desk and opened the first letter.
My dearest Yun'er,
If you're reading this, then I failed to protect you from the truth. I don't know how much time I have, but I need you to know—you were always loved. What I am about to tell you may hurt, but you must not trust the smile of those who stand closest.
Especially not… her.
The ink smudged, as if tears had fallen across the page mid-sentence.
Yun read the line again.
Especially not her.
He looked up, eyes burning.
Outside the door, he heard footsteps retreating.
Soft. Graceful.
Measured.
And for the first time since returning to the manor, he realized—
He wasn't sure who his stepmother really was.