The moonlight shimmered across the tiled roof of Mei Lin's cottage, casting silver shadows that danced with the wind.
She sat in silence beneath the old tree, her hands curled around a mug of cooled tea, the wooden crane resting gently against her palm.
How long had it been since she'd last spoken his name?
She whispered it once now—just to the wind. It vanished as quickly as it came, swallowed by the hush of the mountain.
---
The next morning, a knock rapped softly against her door.
She opened it to find Aunt Lin standing there, worry etched across her face. "Mei Lin," she said quickly, "you're needed. A traveler collapsed near the market trail. Some say he came from the north."
Mei Lin didn't hesitate.
She gathered her satchel—already half-packed—and followed Aunt Lin down the path. The village was stirring with quiet curiosity. A few children peeked out from behind fences. Someone murmured something about a soldier.
The man lay on a woven mat in the shade behind the tea house. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, and the cloth over his shoulder was soaked in blood.
Mei Lin's heart clenched—but her hands stayed steady.
She kneeled beside him, brushing the sweat from his brow. "This wound is days old," she murmured. "Poorly stitched. It's festering."
Doctor Wen appeared a moment later, frowning. "A musket wound, I'd guess. Bullet grazed the shoulder but didn't go clean."
Mei Lin worked quickly. She crushed dried zi cao and boiled it into a salve, then cleaned the wound with warm water and wine.
Her fingers moved by instinct, tying bandages with care. She didn't flinch at the blood. She didn't flinch at the way the man groaned and muttered through fever dreams.
But her breath did catch for a moment—just once—when he whispered a name in his sleep.
"Commander Ren…"
She stilled.
Her pulse skipped, then steadied.
Doctor Wen didn't seem to notice, but her mind was already racing.
Ren.
Her Ren?
It couldn't be. She hadn't heard his name in months, and yet here it was—slipping past the lips of a stranger brought in by fate.
---
That evening, Mei Lin sat beside the recovering man. His fever had broken, but he remained unconscious. His hands were calloused like a soldier's. A scar cut across his temple.
She didn't ask questions—not yet.
But the whisper of that name stayed with her.
Had something happened to him?
Was he nearby?
Did he remember her?
---
The village returned to calm, but Mei Lin's thoughts didn't. In her garden, she moved slower. Her smile lingered less.
At night, she found herself sitting longer beneath the tree, looking up at the stars as if they could offer answers.
She didn't want to believe she was waiting for him.
But sometimes, the heart keeps hope in corners we pretend not to look at.
---
At the end of the week, the traveler finally opened his eyes.
Mei Lin leaned in, gentle but alert. "Can you speak?"
He blinked, confused. "Where…?"
"You're safe. In Qinghe Village."
He exhaled with visible relief. "I was sent south… to deliver a message. But bandits…"
"Do you remember what the message was?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "To find someone. A woman. She once lived behind a teahouse in the capital. The commander…" His voice faded. "He told me… 'If she's still alive, tell her I kept my promise.'"
Mei Lin froze.
Her heart didn't pound—it simply… stopped.
"Do you know his name?" she asked quietly.
The man frowned, clearly still dazed. "They called him Commander Ren. But I heard someone say he no longer wears a uniform."
---
Mei Lin stepped outside.
The wind moved through her garden, touching each sprout gently as it passed. The wooden crane felt heavier in her pocket now.
A promise.
Not forgotten.
Not broken.
Not yet.