It was still early when Fuheng stepped into the Hall of Eternal Reflection.

In his hands, he carried a small tray arranged with care. Three pieces of golden pear, peeled just enough to show their flesh. A folded cloth scented with chrysanthemum water. A porcelain bowl of warm rice, plain and untouched. And incense, wrapped in silk.

He knelt before the altar where her name was etched, and let his gaze linger on the quiet plaque that bore the little girl’s presence more vividly than anything in the world ever could. Princess Ling, Daughter of the Phoenix Throne, born in the spring winds, returned to silence before the snows.

Fuheng placed the offering down with the precision of a ritual long repeated. He lit the incense, watching the thin line of smoke rise in front of him, his face unreadable but for the quiet in his eyes.

“I brought pears again, Ling’er,” he whispered, his voice barely more than breath. “The sweet ones you like it,” A moment passed in silence, before he added, “It’s been three years today. The garden still blooms, but I haven’t stepped in it since.”

He closed his eyes but then, he heard the hush. You had entered the hall, unannounced but not unexpected.

And yet here, within these walls, you walked as a mother. As what the world forgets you are, behind the crown.

“You placed her name near the center,” he said quietly, still facing the altar. “Above even the princes. You knew they would question it.” His fingers moved delicately, adjusting the incense, though it needed no adjusting. “You always did that... quiet rebellions wrapped in silk and law.” He paused. “Thank you.”

At last, Fuheng rose to his feet. His movements were slow, robes whispering around him as he turned, not completely, just enough to see you from the edge of his vision. His pale eyes met yours, not with challenge, but with familiarity.

The look of someone who once knew the whole of you, and had held the same sorrow.

“She looked like you, more than me,” he said gently. “That’s what they never said aloud.” His voice quieted again. He didn’t sigh, but his breath left him in a way that made room for silence.

“I’ll come again tomorrow. And the day after. Until the incense no longer burns for me.”