Qing Yun never mentioned the message again.
She deleted it that night, thumb pressed firmly until the image vanished. But even with the screen dark, the ghost of the photo lingered in her mind: herself as a teenager, Xu Wei Ran's shoulder brushing hers, both holding a trophy, smiling in quiet victory.
It was harmless. Innocent.
Yet the words attached had been sharp: "Always surrounded by famous men, aren't you?"
She told herself it was nothing. Noise. Speculation. She had walked too far, built too much, to let whispers drag her down again.
So she set her jaw, straightened her back, and buried herself in her work.
The final weeks of her restoration course blurred into steady rhythm. Qing Yun's hands moved with precision, her notes filled with diagrams of paper fibers, porcelain cracks, pigments and their ages.
Her instructors noticed.
"Lin Qing Yun," one of them said, inspecting a porcelain bowl she had repaired, the hairline crack mended so seamlessly that the piece seemed untouched. "You have patience. And patience is the rarest skill."
She bowed her head politely. Inside, warmth spread. Not pride, exactly, but a quiet affirmation.
When the certification ceremony came, sunlight poured across rows of students. Certificates passed from hand to hand.
Qing Yun stepped forward, bowing as she received hers.
"Excellent marks," the dean said with a small smile. "Continue this path, Miss Lin. You have a gift."
Polite applause rose. Her classmates clapped her back, hugged her, whispered, "Congratulations, jiejie! We knew you'd top the class!"
Qing Yun smiled faintly, thanking them, her calm gaze soft.
For once, she allowed herself to feel proud.
Back in Liangcheng, her first stop wasn't Luminar or Ze Yan's mansion. It was 旧梦轩.
The little studio smelled of sandalwood and old paper, dust motes swirling in morning light. Shen Huai Zhen was seated at his usual place, a pot of tea steaming beside him.
"You're back," he said with a smile as his eyes fell on her. "And with new light in your face."
Qing Yun bowed politely, handing him her certificate. "I finished the program."
He studied the paper, nodding with quiet approval. Then he looked at her, gaze steady but kind. "So, are you ready to walk this path fully?"
She blinked.
Shen Huai Zhen set the certificate aside. "Restoration isn't only about mending objects. It's about mending time, memory, even yourself. If you have the patience for it, I'd be honored to take you as my apprentice."
The words sank into her chest, heavy and luminous. She lowered her head, voice soft but clear: "I would be honored."
His smile deepened, wrinkles folding warmly. "Good. Then you're no longer just a visitor. You're family to 旧梦轩."
Tea was poured, conversation flowed. Philosophy interlaced with craft, wisdom carried on steam.
Qing Yun left the studio with her heart lighter than it had been in years.
At Luminar, she barely stepped through the lobby before a voice squealed: "Jiejie!"
Ruan Yi Lan darted forward, nearly tripping over her own feet. She latched onto Qing Yun's arm, eyes shining.
"You're finally back! Do you know how much I missed you? The office is so boring without you! Oh—oh! I finished another draft!"
Her words spilled in a torrent, her energy like sunlight.
Qing Yun laughed softly, patting her shoulder. "Slow down, Yi Lan."
But inside, her chest tightened with something tender. The way Yi Lan looked at her—with admiration, affection, like a younger sister—reminded her of Si Yao.
For the first time, the memory didn't sting. It warmed.
That evening, Ze Yan insisted on driving her back to the mansion. He had been oddly quiet, a curve of satisfaction lingering at the corner of his lips.
"Why do you look like you're hiding something?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"You'll see," he said.
He led her through the mansion, down a staircase she rarely used. The basement had once been an entertainment lounge—sleek couches, a bar, a private meeting space.
Now it was transformed.
Wide tables stood in neat rows, equipped with lamps that mimicked natural light. Adjustable shelves lined one wall, holding tools she recognized: fine brushes, precision knives, powders and adhesives. Temperature-controlled cabinets gleamed quietly, ready for paper and porcelain. Even a small reading nook had been tucked into the corner, filled with books on art and conservation.
Her breath caught.
"Ze Yan…"
He stood beside her, arms folded, watching her reaction. "It's yours."
She turned to him, stunned. "Mine?"
"You don't need to leave to do what you love," he said simply. "Wherever you are, I want you to have your own place."
Her throat tightened. She turned back, touching the smooth wood of a table, the bristles of a brush. Everything was prepared with care, thought, and love.
She looked at him again, voice soft, breaking: "Thank you."
Ze Yan's lips curved faintly. He stepped forward, tilting her chin up with one hand, and kissed her gently.
Amid the scent of sandalwood and fresh wood polish, she leaned into him, the workshop around them glowing with new beginnings.
For the first time in a long time, Qing Yun felt she truly had a future.