It has been half a year since I awakened in this unfamiliar world, and despite the lingering weakness in my body and the bitter herbal concoctions that arrived like clockwork each day, life here has been unexpectedly tranquil. I was no longer burdened by the chaos of my former existence. Meals were delivered without request, warm silks awaited without effort, and each morning I was greeted by the quiet elegance of hand-copied scrolls and the soft fragrance of sandalwood. I was, for all intents and purposes, living the life of a noblewoman wrapped in ease and luxury.
But of all the moments in my day, the one I treasured most was just before sleep. That was when I would call for Qingya—my loyal maid—and ask her, under the pretense of "testing her memory," to tell me stories from the past. Stories, of course, not from my past, but from the life of this body's original owner: Zhou Yuntang.
Through her soft-spoken recollections, I pieced together a portrait of this world. This was the Lán Dynasty, a flourishing kingdom with an opulent capital and ancient traditions. The girl whose life I had stumbled into—Zhou Yuntang—was no ordinary girl. She was born into a lineage of extraordinary prominence: a grandfather who had served three emperors, a father who oversaw the realm's agricultural treasury, and even an aunt who resided within the inner palace walls as a favored imperial consort.
But behind this grandeur lay sorrow. Yuntang had been frail since birth, her health perpetually teetering on the edge of collapse. Her mother had passed when she was but eight years old, leaving behind only a lingering warmth and silence. Her father, weighed down by duty and his growing harem, barely found time for the daughter who reminded him too much of loss. As a result, her chambers were quiet, her days colorless—save for Qingya, the gentle girl gifted by her maternal grandfather, a wealthy merchant whose love for his granddaughter had remained her only consistent light.
It was no wonder, then, that Zhou Yuntang had lived quietly, reading scrolls, avoiding needlework, and rarely speaking. And that suited me just fine.
Until one morning, I finally found enough strength to rise from my bed without Qingya's support. My legs trembled slightly as they touched the cool stone floor, but the joy in my heart overshadowed the unease. After months of stillness, I was walking—truly walking—again.
Outside, the garden was awash in early autumn's glow. The sky above stretched vast and clear, a soft blue that felt like a balm to my soul. Gentle sunlight filtered through branches of golden osmanthus blossoms, their perfume thick in the air. The breeze played with the petals, sending yellow specks twirling across the courtyard like confetti from heaven.
Qingya watched me from the stone steps, her lips curved into a quiet smile. I turned to her and, in a rare burst of emotion, embraced her tightly.
"If it weren't for you," I whispered, "I would've never made it this far. Let's no longer be mistress and servant. From now on, I'll be your sister—you'll be my little sister."
She was startled, her eyes wide with confusion. "Miss, I—how could I ever deserve such honor? I am merely—"
"Hush," I said with a grin. "Or are you upset because I made you the younger sister?"
Truth be told, I was probably ten years her senior in my former life. But in this new chapter, I was determined to start anew.
"Then… thank you, elder sister," she said at last, blinking away the tears that welled up in her eyes. "From now on, I'll listen to everything you say."
And so I began the next part of this life: not just as a convalescent noblewoman, but as an artist.
I asked Qingya for paper and brushes. My fingers were clumsy at first—months of inactivity will do that—but I managed to sketch a single osmanthus branch. To my surprise, Qingya gasped with admiration. To her, who had never seen Yuntang lift a brush before, the drawing was a marvel.
That night, for the first time since arriving here, I felt like myself again.
As days passed, I gradually revealed more of my talent, though I masked it as "practice." Qingya, bless her earnest soul, treasured every sketch as though it were painted by the hand of a master. Her unwavering support stirred something in me. I began to create—not just for survival, but for joy.
Eventually, I asked her to take a few paintings to the market. I had seen it in period dramas—artists selling scrolls to support themselves. I just wanted to try.
She returned with two hundred silver taels.
I was dumbstruck.
Zhou Yuntang's monthly allowance had been a mere ten taels. And yet, with a few strokes of my brush, I had earned the equivalent of years' worth of income.
Time went by in this rhythm of peace. Painting by day, dreaming by night. Almost a year had passed. The festival season was approaching, and with it, the Lunar New Year. As the fifth miss of the Zhou household, I could no longer remain hidden. I would soon have to meet the family whose name I now bore, and take my place at the table as "one of them."
Ready or not, I was no longer just borrowing this life. I was beginning to live it.