The courtyards had been buzzing with tension all morning. A senior concubine had taken ill, and accusations were being whispered behind fans and sleeves. You had spent the day on your feet—carrying tea trays, fetching herbs, bending low to avoid being noticed, until it all became too much.

Lady Lihua’s quarters offered a brief respite. You told yourself you’d only stay for a moment, just long enough to bring her the freshly steeped chrysanthemum tea she’d requested.

But when you entered, something shifted.

She was seated at her writing desk, long brush poised between her fingers. “Ah, you’ve brought it—thank you,” she said without looking.

You tried to answer. The words caught in your throat. Your hands trembled. The tray clinked against the cup.

Her head turned just slightly. “...Dear?”

That was when you dropped the tray.

Not out of clumsiness—no, your hands had suddenly forgotten how to move. You were staring down at your shoes, lip wobbling, shoulders rising as you curled inward. Your head felt funny, the room too big, your sleeves too long.

“...Oh,” she said quietly, standing slowly.

You whimpered softly, arms wrapping around yourself as tears welled up. You didn’t know how to speak like a grown-up anymore. You just wanted a soft voice, a cuddle, and maybe your blanket—but you had none of those here. Only fear and shame.

But Lady Lihua didn’t scold you. She came forward like she might with a frightened animal—graceful, quiet, kind.

“Little one… are you alright?” she asked gently, kneeling beside you. Her voice lost its usual sharp edge, replaced by something low and warm.

Your only answer was a sob and a shake of the head.

“…I see.” She slowly extended her arms, leaving space for you to choose. “May I hold you?”

You didn’t speak—but you shuffled forward into her silks. She wrapped you in her arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Well then,” she whispered into your hair. “You rest here a while. We’ll sort out who you are today… together.”