The morning sun had just begun to filter through the carved lattice windows when Ari stepped outside.
She wore soft plum-colored robes today—elegant, understated, nothing like the wilting whites Ah Li used to favor. Her hair was gathered in a half-knot, adorned with a single jade pin. Not gaudy. Not girlish. Regal enough to remind others she was someone's daughter—but with a new glint in her eyes that no one in this household would recognize.
The heavy wooden gate opened with a creak.
Outside, the town bustled.
Vendors shouted their wares across the stone-paved lanes, hawking steamed buns, plum wine, silk ribbons, jade combs. Children darted through carts with sticky fingers and bare feet. A man hauled a bamboo cage of chickens past her palanquin. The scent of fried scallion pancakes mingled with sandalwood incense from a nearby temple.
Ari inhaled deeply.
This was real.
Not a dream. Not a delusion.
She'd always lived in cities, but never one like this—ancient and alive in a way nothing modern could be. The capital was no mere cluster of stone buildings; it breathed. Courtyards pulsed with gossip. Lanterns swayed with laughter. Every street corner held a story in waiting.
Xiao Huan followed dutifully behind her, half-skip, half-anxious trot.
"Xiao Jie, the physician said—if you feel faint—should we not return soon?"
Ari didn't slow. "If I fall, carry me."
"Wha—yes, xiao jie!"
She walked past the apothecary Ah Li used to visit when she'd skip meals for love. Past the bookstore where she once spent a week's allowance copying poetry to send to that bastard. Past the street of scholars where young men in linen robes rehearsed their tones for imperial exams, brows furrowed with borrowed ambition.
The sun caught the eaves of a teahouse rooftop, gilding it in gold. She stopped in front of it.
This was where they'd first met.
Where Ah Li had spilled hot tea on herself while trying to carry too many plates—before she had maids, before her father's ships came in and changed their fortunes. A scrawny scholar had offered his own ragged sleeve to help mop it up. Soft voice. Thin smile.
Feifan.
Ari stared at the threshold of that same teahouse, its red lanterns swinging in rhythm with the breeze.
She didn't step in.
She didn't need to.
Let ghosts rot where they belonged.
She turned away, her face unreadable.
"What street is this?" she asked suddenly.
Xiao Huan blinked. "We're in the scholar's quarter, miss. Near East Market. Just ahead is the Tailor's Row, and beyond that the Ministry Square. We can see the imperial gardens from the hill if we go further."
Ari nodded, committing each name to memory.
She could feel it with every word she spoke, every decision she made in this borrowed skin. The people around her watched her more closely now. Not with suspicion—yet—but with a breathless kind of hope, like any wrong word might crack her again.
Memory loss. That was the excuse.
A slight one, believable. The kind doctors in both lifetimes loved to call "stress-induced amnesia." Her parents clung to it. It explained the subtle shift in her voice, the sudden clarity in her gaze, the way she asked for plum robes instead of pale blue, the way she no longer flinched at loud noises or soft questions.
She didn't recite poetry like a lovesick girl anymore. She asked about trade routes.
She didn't cry over ink-stained letters. She asked what spice sold highest by the gram this season.
But she had to be careful. Too much change, and Xiao Huan might whisper to the cook. The cook might tell the neighbors. And the neighbors might start muttering tales of spirit possession and evil omens.
So she gave herself limits.
She still walked slowly, like someone recovering.
She still kept quiet when guests came, letting her mother do the talking.
She still "forgot" little things—names of their household staff, the favorite dessert she used to love, the lyrics to lullabies her mother sang.
-
The sun had shifted high, casting sharp shadows across the stone-tiled road as Ari wandered further into the East Market.
The bustle of the scholar quarter had faded behind her, replaced by the raw pulse of trade—vendors haggling, buyers barking, crates slamming down, cloth unfurling like waves of color. The smell of ink, leather, steamed flour buns, and sun-warmed silk danced in the air. And beneath it all, possibility.
This is where I start.
She stopped in front of a narrow but solid two-story building tucked between a fabric wholesaler and an incense stall. The front was old, but not broken. The windows still intact. The beams weren't bowed. A little cleaning, a few renovations—
"Xiao Huan," Ari said, folding her hands behind her back like she'd seen merchants do when inspecting goods. "Do you know who owns this shop?"
The girl looked up. "I think… an old tailor? But he left to care for his ailing daughter in the countryside. It's been closed for a year. The neighbors say he's renting it."
Perfect.
It was just far enough from the main thoroughfare to be affordable, just close enough to see steady foot traffic from the scholars and gentry women looking for novelties.
Her fingers curled slightly as she thought of her dowry chest.
She'd saved for a wedding that never came. Five years of jewels, of silver taels folded into silk handkerchiefs, of treasured combs tucked aside for her marriage trunk. No one had touched it since she "fell ill."
Ari would sell the jade hairpins she once thought she'd wear on her wedding night.
And with it, she'd build something new.
Not just any shop.
Something no one here had ever seen.
She could picture it already: wide open display shelves, uniform packaging, simple but elegant designs. Not cluttered like the other shops, not reeking of too many incense sticks or screaming red banners with loud calligraphy.
She wanted glass bottles. She wanted clean rows. She wanted branding.
Lotions. Scented soaps. Hair oil infused with herbs in ratios they hadn't dreamed of yet. Little perfumes in beautiful paper-wrapped boxes. Everything luxurious, feminine, covetable.
The women of the capital were used to thick powders and lead-based beauty creams. Ari would give them rosewater tonics and silky lip balm. A whole new world of indulgence.
And one day?
The daughters of noblemen would sneak away to buy from her.
The same daughters that might one day call San Mande sister-in-law.
Yes. Let them come.
Let them love her things. Her brand. Her shop.
She didn't need a man to marry into power.
She would sell power. In bottles, creams, and scent.
-
That evening, as the household settled for dinner, Ari placed her chopsticks down with quiet intent.
"Father. Mother. I have something to ask."
Her parents both looked up, startled by the clarity in her tone. She hadn't raised her voice once since her recovery—barely spoke more than a few words at each meal. But tonight, she held herself with calm resolve, spine straight, eyes bright like firelight on water.
"I want to open a shop."
There was a pause. Her father blinked. Her mother reached for her hand instinctively.
"Li'er, sweet one, you don't need to think about that now," her mother said gently. "Rest first. Your health—"
"I've never felt more clearheaded," Ari said. "And I'm not asking for money. I'll be using the dowry chest."
Her father's mouth opened—but she was faster.
"It was for a future that's gone. Now I'm building something new. I only ask for ingredients—raw herbs, oils, clay, flower distillates. And I'll pay cost. Every copper."
Her mother looked at her husband, unsure. Her father's brows furrowed, thumb stroking his beard.
"You truly don't want us to help?" he asked.
"I want to prove I can do this," she said. "Let me stand on my own feet. But let me stand close to you."
The old merchant leaned back, eyes narrowing with pride and worry interwoven. "Then we'll sell to you like we would any client. You'll have the ledgers. The weight. The prices."
"I'll accept nothing less."
Her mother's eyes were glassy, voice soft. "Our Ah Li... she's grown up."
Ari smiled gently, but in her mind, her fists clenched. No. She died. I'm what's left. And what's left was no simpering girl waiting for love.
That night, she lit a lantern in her room and unrolled fresh parchment. With a calligraphy brush between her fingers, she painted one bold, ink-dark character:
梦
Meng. Dream.
Elegant. Stark. Hopeful.
It would be the name of her shop. Of her brand. Of her empire.
Because in her world, dreams shattered like glass.
But in this world?
She'd forge dreams into gold. Wrap them in silk. Drip them onto wrists in amber bottles and press them into the lips of noble daughters in rose balm.
They wanted to live like dreams?
Then they'd have to buy them from her.
She sealed the parchment with a hard stroke and smiled.
Let them come.
She'd sell dreams. And she'd make damn sure they never forgot who gave them.