At twelve, she ran.
The night was warm, lit by lanterns and heavy with summer cicadas. While the house slept, she packed dried buns, a rolled-up robe, and her father's
compass.
She slipped past the gates, past the sleepy guards, and ran toward the
mountains.
But fate is cruel.
By dawn, she reached the riverbank — and saw soldiers patrolling the
bridge. She turned, heart pounding, and fled along the bank. The mud slid
beneath her feet.
She fell.
The current dragged her, tumbling her over stones. The water clawed at her
robe. She screamed — but the wind swallowed it.
When she finally washed ashore, bruised and trembling, she was far from
the capital. A small fishing village took her in. A widow named Muyu nursed
her wounds, but had little to feed her.
She worked. Cleaned stalls. Fed pigs. Sold herbs.
But she did not cry.
She learned to read wounds. Mend broken bones. She sold herbs in jars
shaped like peaches. Villagers began to call her "little healer."