Spring settled over Liangcheng with soft warmth.
Every morning, Qing Yun walked through the narrow street by the river toward 旧梦轩. The studio's wooden sign creaked gently in the breeze, the faint smell of sandalwood and tea always greeting her at the door.
Inside, Shen Huai Zhen was usually already at work—his steady hands moving across brittle paper, or his brush dipping into lacquer with the precision of decades.
"You're late," he would tease, though she always arrived on time.
She bowed, taking her place. "Good morning, Master."
Her days filled with careful repetition: practicing brushstrokes on aged rice paper, mending porcelain with fine golden lines, learning to recognize the whispers of centuries in a faded script.
"Restoration," Shen said one afternoon, "isn't about returning something to perfection. It's about giving scars a chance to endure with dignity."
Qing Yun paused, fingers tracing a faint crack in porcelain. She thought of herself, of Ze Yan, of Si Yao. Then she nodded slowly.
"Yes, Master."
---
At night, she often worked in the basement workshop Ze Yan had built for her.
The space had grown warm with use: brushes stained with pigment, books stacked neatly, unfinished projects waiting for her touch. Sometimes Ze Yan would come down, silent, leaning against the doorway as he watched her bent over a piece of history.
"You don't sleep enough," he said once.
"I will, after this," she murmured, not looking up.
He walked over, laid a coat gently across her shoulders, then stayed there, watching her steady hands.
It became their quiet ritual—her focus, his presence.
---
At Luminar, she visited occasionally, and every time Ruan Yi Lan latched onto her like an affectionate little sister.
"Jiejie, your life is so amazing now!" Yi Lan exclaimed one afternoon, holding up her phone. "Look! My posts about you keep getting so many likes. People say you're their role model!"
Qing Yun arched a brow, amused. "Don't exaggerate."
"It's true!" Yi Lan beamed. "A fairytale! Everyone loves you two!"
Qing Yun shook her head, but inside, she couldn't help smiling.
---
But happiness was never untouched.
Far away, in a quiet suite high above Guangjing, Jiang Yi Rong flipped through a dossier.
"Lin Qing Yun," she read aloud, her voice smooth and cold. "Former fiancée. Disappeared five years. Debts. A mother who broke. Lived with Xu Wei Ran."
Her assistant shifted nervously. "Madam, these are unconfirmed rumors—"
Yi Rong's red lips curved. "Rumors are enough. Rumors can be sharpened."
She turned another page: photos of Qing Yun leaving her restoration course, walking with classmates, Ze Yan waiting outside in tailored coats.
Yi Rong's smile didn't falter. "They think they're invincible, flaunting their happiness. Let's see how long it lasts."
---
Back in Liangcheng, Qing Yun lifted a small porcelain vase from her desk at 旧梦轩. The crack ran jagged, but the gold joinery she had applied gleamed in the sunlight. She held it up, admiring the way imperfection became beauty.
Shen Huai Zhen came beside her, eyes twinkling. "You've done well."
She smiled faintly, pride warming her chest.
Outside, petals fell into the river, floating silently downstream.
---
That night, as she returned to the mansion, she found Ze Yan waiting in the living room. He rose from the sofa, crossing to her with unhurried steps.
"You look tired," he murmured.
"I'm fine," she said, setting her bag down. "It was a good day."
His hand brushed her hair back. "Good. Then rest. Tomorrow, you'll need your strength."
She tilted her head. "For what?"
He only smiled, not answering.
---
Somewhere else in the city, Yi Rong ended a phone call with a faint laugh.
"Prepare the guest list," she told her assistant. "I want her there."
Her voice was calm, confident, almost amused—like a queen arranging pieces on a board.
The game was beginning.