The door closed behind her with a quiet thunk, sealing the world outside.
Qin Lian stood for a long moment beneath the carved lintel, her hands still curled loosely at her sides. The gentle hush of the courtyard wrapped around her like a cloak—cool, fragrant, unfamiliar. Lantern light glowed softly along the eaves, illuminating the edges of flowering pear trees and the curve of a lotus-shaped pond.
Inside, the room was simple, almost sparse, yet somehow serene.
A floor mat tucked into one corner. A low table set with an unlit lamp. A silk scroll hanging on the wall, inked with a poem in graceful calligraphy. The window shutters were carved like overlapping petals, and beyond them the stars shimmered like distant watchfires above the clouds.
She stepped inside.
And remembered.
⸻
Her name had once been Li Wen.
A nurse at a large hospital in Beijing. She had been twenty-eight, overworked, often unseen, constantly tired.
Night shifts were the worst. Twelve hours of running on aching legs, dealing with emergency cases, comforting dying patients, taking verbal abuse from overbearing relatives. The hospital halls never truly slept—there were always footsteps, always lights, always someone calling for help.
She had worked in the respiratory wing, during the coldest months. She remembered how her hands would go numb from washing and disinfecting, again and again. The smell of antiseptic never left her skin.
There had been no time for friends. No time for painting, which she once loved. No time for herself.
Just check vitals. Fill charts. Pass medications. Write reports. Clock out. Sleep. Do it again.
There were nights when she would cry in the locker room. Not because of anything dramatic—but because she was so tired.
And then—
A cold, rainy night.
A shift that ended with her helping an elderly man breathe for the last time.
She had stayed behind to finish his chart.
She remembered stepping onto the slick pavement outside the hospital, umbrella clutched in hand. Headlights. A horn. A flash of panic.
And then darkness.
⸻
Qin Lian—no, Li Wen—pressed a hand to her chest.
The name Li Wen still echoed in her mind, but it felt far away now. Blurred. Like someone else's life. A girl trapped in scrubs and exhaustion, who had loved people but forgotten herself.
The room around her was warm and quiet.
No blinking machines. No hospital alarms.
Just moonlight.
Just stillness.
She walked slowly to the window and pushed it open. The wind stirred her hair, carrying the scent of pine, lotus blossoms, and distant rain.
A soft rustle at her feet. The grey rabbit hopped in from the hallway and sat down neatly beside her, blinking up with sleepy judgment.
Qin Lian smiled faintly. "You again."
The rabbit said nothing. Of course.
She knelt beside it, watching its nose twitch.
"You followed me through everything," she murmured. "Through the fields. On the boat. Up this mountain. Into this room."
The rabbit stared.
"You could've left. But you didn't."
She lifted it gently into her lap. It didn't struggle. Just settled in with a soft huff and closed its eyes.
"I guess we're stuck together now," she said. "You and me. In this strange place."
She stroked its head thoughtfully.
"Still don't know if you're a boy or a girl. Doesn't matter, I suppose. You're mine now."
The rabbit yawned.
"I should give you a name."
She looked out the window again.
Mist drifted across the treetops. The stars shimmered high above, half-veiled by clouds. The flute music from earlier had faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet hum of night.
"What about… Yun?" she said softly. "It means cloud."
The rabbit shifted a little. She took that as agreement.
"Okay, then. Yun it is."
She carried Yun to the sleeping mat and curled up beneath the blanket, pulling it around both of them.
"I don't know what comes next," she whispered. "I don't know what kind of spirit root I'll have. Or if I can even learn anything here."
She stared at the ceiling.
"But I'm going to try. Not just exist. Live."
And she meant it.
She'd spent too long surviving.
Now, she wanted something more.
To learn. To grow. To breathe a life that didn't drain her.
To become someone else. Or maybe, finally—herself.
The stars overhead gleamed through the carved window. The wind rustled the pear blossoms outside.
And Li Wen—
No.
Qin Lian, closed her eyes.