Shen Xifan hadn't planned to arrive in the rain. But maybe it suited her.
The train hissed as it came to a stop, its sleek body cutting through the mist like a ghost through fog. For a moment, everything was still, the doors hadn't opened yet, and the only sound was the faint, rhythmic hum of the engine cooling.
Then, with a soft click and sigh, the doors slid open.
She stepped out onto the platform.
The world outside was quiet and gray. Mist clung to the tiled roof above her head, trickled down wooden beams in steady drips. Rain, thin and constant, pattered on the concrete. It wasn't loud or stormy. Just persistent. Like the weather had decided to whisper instead of scream.
Her boots landed softly. A splash. A tap. Another splash. She moved slowly, her coat wrapped tight around her, hood drawn over her dark hair. Every motion was deliberate, not because she wanted to be elegant, but because she didn't know how to move through this world anymore.
There were no fans.
No cameras.
No one craned their necks to catch a glimpse of her face.
Just a narrow countryside station and the faint scent of wet leaves and train oil.
She exhaled. The breath fogged in front of her.
No welcome. No noise. Good.
Her fingers tightened around the handle of her canvas duffel — her only piece of luggage. It was heavier than it looked. Not from what was inside, but from the weight of what it represented.
Everything she didn't bring.
Everything she left behind.
There was a car waiting for her, not a black SUV like she used to ride in, not a sleek service car with tinted windows, just a silver sedan parked near the edge of the curb. It was small. Unmarked. The driver stood beside it under a wide navy umbrella, unfazed by the drizzle.
He didn't wave.
Didn't look impatient.
Just stood there, like he'd been waiting all morning without minding a second of it.
As she approached, he gave a faint nod.
"Miss Shen?" he asked.
His voice was rough, not unkind.
She hesitated, then nodded.
He opened the rear door for her.
She slid in without a word.
The seat was cool against her back. The windows were fogged slightly from the inside. She pressed her sleeve against the glass, wiped a small circle, and looked out.
The town hadn't changed.
Or maybe it had, and she simply didn't know it well enough to see.
Pavement turned to cobblestone. Storefronts shrank from neon-lit chains to wood-planked shops with paper lanterns still strung between them. Red ink bled through the paper. Yellow tassels fluttered in the rain.
They passed a shuttered tofu shop.
A bookstore with no sign, just a painted window.
A canal that curved gently beneath a mossy archway.
She'd shot here once; a perfume commercial, years ago. She hadn't looked at the location. She hadn't noticed the trees. She was too busy holding her breath for the next camera cue.
Now, with her forehead resting lightly against the cool glass, she noticed everything.
In the front seat, the driver turned on the heater slightly.
Not too warm. Just enough to cut through the edge of the cold.
He didn't make small talk.
Didn't ask why she was here, or for how long.
That, too, felt like a gift.
She closed her eyes briefly. The hum of the engine. The whisper of the rain. The faint creak of the windshield wipers as they moved, slow and methodical, like the blink of an old man.
Her heart beat a little slower here.
Not from peace.
But from fatigue.
Like her body finally realized she didn't have to stay braced anymore.
They passed the gates to Water Moon Town's old district after fifteen minutes. The road narrowed. Cobblestone gave way to slick stone paths, some of them broken, patched with moss and time.
The driver slowed. The car's engine hushed even more.
And just beyond a bend in the path flanked by two bare-limbed plum trees
She saw it.
A small, whitewashed courtyard house with its gate cracked open and ivy growing up the side like a secret no one tried to hide.
Just like the email had said.
Her new address.
Her escape.
"Here we are," the driver said quietly.
She opened her eyes.
He didn't move to help her with the bag. Didn't open her door.
He understood.
Some arrivals needed to be made alone.
She stepped out into the mist again.
The air smelled different here.
Less like city metal. More like tea and earth.
She stood in front of the gate for a long moment, her fingers curled around the strap of her duffel, her breath fogging gently in front of her.
Rain gathered on the edge of her hood and slid down the front of her coat in a thin line.
Still no one called her name.
Still no flash of a camera.
Still no need to pretend.
She pushed the gate open.
It gave a long, wooden groan — not loud, but deep, like a door remembering how to move after too many quiet years.
She crossed the threshold.
And the rain didn't stop.
But something inside her began to.
The driver didn't ask questions.
That in itself was a gift.
As Shen Xifan buckled herself into the back seat, he adjusted the rearview mirror slightly—not to look at her, but to block the glare from the overcast sky behind them. The car began moving again, slow and smooth over the uneven road.
She appreciated that too.
Every part of her felt overstretched lately, like worn-out elastic that didn't quite hold its shape. The thought of jolting down narrow roads in a jerky car with a curious driver and FM radio chatter made her stomach turn. But this man drove like someone who understood the importance of quiet.
They didn't speak for the first ten minutes.
He kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally adjusting the defroster. The windshield fogged on one corner, but he didn't seem to mind. The rhythm of the wipers lulled her. She watched as old tiled rooftops passed them by, interspersed with little shophouses, gardens tucked behind stone fences, and elderly women walking in pairs beneath plastic umbrellas.
The car turned past a shuttered school. A swing set creaked in the empty yard, its chains rusted at the joints. She watched the swings rock, slow and stubborn in the breeze.
"It'll be colder later," the driver finally said. His voice was low, calm. "River mist tends to stick to the bones."
She nodded.
The sound of her own voice felt foreign, so she didn't answer aloud.
Another turn. Another alley. The town narrowed further here.
No traffic lights. No signs.
Just memory and rain.
She saw the old market square. Empty now, but in her mind she could hear the chatter of vendors from that commercial shoot. She had stood right there—by the paper fan stall, holding a flower she hadn't smelled, pretending to be serene.
She hadn't felt serene.
She had felt tired.
Tired and scared and seen in all the wrong ways.
"Almost there," the driver said gently.
She blinked and realized her fingers had curled into fists on her lap.
The car slowed.
In front of them: a small arched bridge that spanned a sleepy canal, water trickling beneath it in lazy ripples. Willow branches hung low, brushing the surface like fingers tracing a memory.
The driver stopped just before the curve.
"You'll need to walk the rest," he said. "Plum Blossom Lane's too narrow for the car."
He got out and retrieved her bag from the trunk without being asked.
She followed, stepping out onto the wet stone.
He handed it to her with a soft grunt. His eyes met hers only briefly.
"Careful of the stones. They're older than either of us."
She managed a small nod. "Thank you."
He tipped his hat. "No one knows who you are here."
That made her pause.
She looked up at him fully for the first time.
There was no recognition in his gaze.
Just the steady calm of someone who drove people to the edge of the quiet and let them find the rest on their own.
She gave him a soft smile.
"Good."
And then turned away.
The sound of her boots echoed faintly as she crossed the arched bridge.
Stone slick with rain. Moss gathering between the cracks. She took her time — not out of caution, but because she didn't want to slip on her very first step back into obscurity.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and exhaled slowly.
Everything smelled of wet wood, plum bark, and age.
Water Moon Town wasn't just old, it remembered being old. This was the part of town no one bothered to modernize. Electricity lines twisted above the rooftops like vines. Windows were latticed with faded paper. Every alley felt like a page of a forgotten poem.
And yet, despite the cold and the mist and the ache in her shoulders, Shen Xifan felt something in her body unclench.
It was quiet.
Not city quiet; where silence was just the space between horns and sirens but real quiet.
The kind that came from a distance.
From reverence.
From being so far removed from the rest of the world that even sound chose not to linger.
She passed a wooden gate on her left. A cat sat on the top beam, blinking at her lazily, fur soaked, but clearly unconcerned. She paused for a moment, their eyes meeting.
It didn't flinch.
Neither did she.
She kept walking.
The street narrowed into a fork where a hand-painted sign read "" Plum Blossom Lane ".
She turned.
The plum trees flanking the entrance had begun to bloom, white petals catching in the rain like confetti too shy to fall all at once.
And at the end of the lane, nestled between the curve of an old wall and a sloped roofline, was her new home.
No. 3.
The courtyard house looked even smaller than the photos had made it seem. But it was quiet. Tucked away. Almost hidden.
And it was hers.
Well.. hers to rent.
For now, that was enough.
She approached slowly, brushing her fingers along the damp wall as she passed the gate. The door had no lock, just a latch. It opened with a soft groan — reluctant, but not resisting.
Inside, the air changed.
Not fresher. Not warmer.
Just older.
Like she'd stepped out of time.
The courtyard was square, ringed with low stone planters and a cracked tile path that led to the front door. There was a tree in the center , bare for now, but its thick trunk promised blossoms in spring. A single stone bench sat beside it, green with moss, waiting like it had stories to tell if she would only sit long enough.
The house itself was narrow but two-storied, whitewashed and timeworn, with dark wooden beams that framed the windows like brushstrokes. A lantern hung above the entrance, unlit and a little crooked.
She stood there for a moment, letting the mist settle around her shoulders like a shawl.
Then she stepped inside.
The wooden door opened with a long exhale. Not squeaky, just tired.
Shen Xifan stepped inside.
The scent met her first: old sandalwood, faint dust, the trace of incense long burned out. It wasn't unpleasant. It was the smell of something untouched, of a room that had been waiting rather than forgotten.
The entryway was dim, lit only by the soft gray spill from the window above. Wooden floorboards stretched beneath her feet, softened by time but still sturdy. A low table sat to the side with a ceramic tray holding a dry sponge and a cracked teacup. The walls were bare except for a faded ink scroll that had curled slightly at the corners.
She stood still for a moment, the door slowly swinging shut behind her.
No one is watching.
No clicks. No shutters.
No demand for her to smile.
She closed her eyes and let the quiet ring in her ears.
The house wasn't large, just two rooms, a narrow kitchen, and a lofted sleeping area tucked up a creaking staircase. The kind of home that didn't bother pretending to be more than it was.
She walked through it slowly.
The bedroom had a wooden-framed bed with a worn quilt folded neatly at the edge. A paper screen separated the bed from the rest of the loft, its surface yellowed and patched. A mirror stood in the corner, streaked, tarnished, but still whole.
She caught her reflection by accident.
Stopped.
The woman looking back at her wasn't quite her.
Or maybe she was finally seeing herself stripped of makeup, styling, and scripts.
No retouch. No filters.
Just a tired girl in a borrowed coat.
She reached up and touched her cheek.
Still warm.
Still real.
Downstairs, she placed her bag beside the low table and turned toward the kitchen. The tiles were cracked in a few places, and the stovetop was gas; the kind that needed a match. A small window above the sink overlooked the courtyard, where rain still ticked gently against the stone path.
It was enough.
She exhaled again, slower this time.
She didn't need perfection.
She needed this.
Silence.
Distance.
Time.
Then, something unexpected.
On the counter, beside a sealed tin of rice and a stack of chipped bowls, stood a thermos.
Pale green. Clean. Out of place.
Her brow furrowed.
She hadn't brought it. It wasn't in the listing photos. No welcome note. No label.
She reached for it slowly and unscrewed the cap.
Steam rose — faint, but fragrant.
Ginger.
Osmanthus.
Her breath caught.
Her mother used to make this.
After night shoots. After school exams. After breakups.
The warmth of it, the scent, hit her harder than she expected.
She poured a small amount into one of the old cups and sipped.
The taste bloomed down her throat. Sweet, sharp, nostalgic.
She didn't cry.
But her hands trembled just slightly as she set the cup down.
Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle.
Beyond the low stone wall of her courtyard, she heard something, faint and rhythmic.
A chisel against stone.
Tap.
Pause.
Tap, tap.
She stepped back to the door and looked across the divider.
Another courtyard. Larger. Neater. Guarded by a single plum tree in bloom.
Red wooden doors bore a hand-carved plaque: Xu Jade Studio.
The sound continued. Delicate. Focused. Like someone not shaping stone — but listening to it.
She didn't lean over the wall.
Didn't call out.
Just stood there, the warmth of the tea still in her hands, listening.
She didn't know who he was.
Not yet.
But she knew the sound of patience when she heard it.
That night, she lit a lamp and opened her sketchbook for the first time in months.
Her fingers moved without thinking.
Curves. Blossoms. Texture.
A thermos, drawn twice. Once from memory, once from now.
The outline of a man bent over stone.
A chisel. A pause.
A rhythm that didn't break.
And in the morning, when she opened her door to the still-wet stones, she found it waiting.
The thermos.
Returned.
Clean.
And resting atop it, a single plum blossom.
Carved from jade.
No note. No ribbon.
Just the gift.
She picked it up with both hands.
And for the first time in months, she smiled.
Not for a camera.
Not for survival.
Just because someone had said, quietly, without needing to be heard:
You're here. I see you.
And she believed it.