Shen Yue woke before dawn, the room still wrapped in the soft suffocation of twilight. Her body felt lighter than it should have, as if the weight of years had been stripped away. But beneath her ribs, a tremor coiled tightly, spreading in faint ripples through her chest and down to her fingertips. She lay still, one hand resting on her stomach, her palm barely brushing the curve that would one day hold their child.
The child she had failed before.
Her breath came shallow, catching in her throat. She kept her eyes on the ceiling, where pale streaks of early light stretched like unspoken promises. It was her second chance, and yet the memory of Lin Hao's torn expression, his silent endurance of the life they had built—and destroyed—still lingered like smoke in the corners of her mind. She hadn't seen it before, not until it was too late. But now…
She exhaled slowly, her heart settling into a deliberate rhythm. "I can't let him suffer this time. I have to act."
The sheets felt strangely coarse beneath her fingers as she swung her legs over the bed. The floor was cool, grounding her. She moved mechanically, as though a single misstep might shatter the fragile balance of the world she'd woken into. The air carried the faintest hint of jasmine tea, a scent she hadn't noticed in years. It was almost cruel, how the past could disguise itself so seamlessly in the small comforts of familiarity.
She padded to the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound. Lin Hao was already there, his silhouette framed against the window, where the sun was just beginning to burn through the haze. He was younger, his face softer, unmarked by the lines she would one day see etched into his skin. He wore a plain white shirt, the cuffs rolled up, exposing forearms that moved with quiet precision as he set down a pot of congee on the counter.
For a moment, she simply watched. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as though every action carried its own purpose. He wiped his hands on a faded dish towel, then turned to the table. She saw the way he adjusted the placemat—just a fraction—to align it perfectly with the edge of the table. His fingers lingered there, brushing the wood as if ensuring its surface was smooth.
A sudden tightness gripped her chest. She had missed these details before, hadn't she? The way he hummed under his breath, barely audible, the way he glanced at her seat as if waiting for her to join him. It wasn't what he said—it was never what he said—but the quiet, invisible ways he made space for her. And she? She had taken it all for granted.
"Good morning," he said, his voice low, warm.
"Morning," she replied, her own voice feeling foreign in her throat. She stepped closer, pulling out her chair, the scrape of it against the floor startlingly loud in the stillness. He turned back to the counter, spooning congee into two bowls with a care that twisted something deep within her.
As they ate, she studied him. His expression was calm, almost unreadable, but there was a small flicker in his eyes when she met his gaze—something she hadn't fully understood before. She wanted to say something, to reach across the table and press her hand over his, but the words caught in her mouth like stones.
Instead, she said, "You don't have to do all this, you know."
He looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I like taking care of things."
Taking care. The phrase rang in her mind, heavy with the weight of all it encompassed. She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak.
The Intrusion
By the time Zhao Mei arrived, the sun was fully risen, flooding the apartment with too-bright light. Shen Yue felt the shift in the air before she heard the knock. It was subtle, like the faint thrum of a taut string just before it snapped. She opened the door with a smile she barely felt, the practiced curve of her lips a mask she had worn too often in the first timeline.
Zhao Mei stepped inside, her perfume sharp and cloying. "Ah, you're up early," she said, her tone light but with an edge that made Shen Yue's skin prickle. "How lovely to see a young couple so… harmonious."
Shen Yue moved to the counter, her movements measured. She poured tea, the steam rising in soft tendrils. She could feel Zhao Mei's gaze flicking around the room, taking in every detail, cataloging them for later use.
"Lin Hao," Zhao Mei said, her voice carrying that faint lilt of mock-concern, "you work so hard. Don't you think it's time you considered something more stable? Something more… practical?"
Shen Yue's hand tightened around the teapot handle, but she forced her grip to relax. The memory of Zhao Mei's words from the original timeline echoed in her mind—how they had seemed harmless, even well-meaning, at the time. She hadn't seen the subtle erosion, the way they had planted seeds of doubt in Lin Hao, seeds that would one day grow into quiet resignation.
She turned, carefully setting the teapot down. "Actually," she said, her voice soft but steady, "Lin Hao's work is incredibly valuable. He has such a gift for what he does. I've always admired that."
Zhao Mei's gaze flicked to her, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she smoothed them into a smile. "Of course," she said, her tone syrupy. "But stability is important, don't you think? Especially with… changes coming."
Shen Yue met her gaze directly, her own smile unwavering. "And what could be more stable than doing something you truly love and are good at?"
The silence that followed was brief but heavy. Zhao Mei's smile tightened before she turned back to Lin Hao, who had been watching the exchange with quiet curiosity. "Well," Zhao Mei said, her tone lighter now, "it's just a suggestion. I'm only thinking of your future."
"I know," Shen Yue said, her voice gentle. "And we appreciate it."
The Sentinel
Zhao Mei's departure was marked by the faintest hesitation at the door, as though she sensed something had shifted, though she couldn't pinpoint what. Shen Yue closed the door behind her, her shoulders relaxing only once the latch clicked into place.
When she turned, she saw Lin Hao watching her. His expression was unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He said nothing, only reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face—a gesture so fleeting it might have been imagined.
That night, Shen Yue sat at her desk, a journal open before her. The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of the pages as she turned them, her pen poised above the blank paper.
"I can't let what happened happen again," she wrote, the words carving themselves onto the page with deliberate strokes. "Not now. Not ever."
She paused, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the shadows stretched long and deep, and for a moment she thought she saw a figure among them, watching. Her grip on the pen tightened, but she didn't look away.
This time, she would see everything.