The woman who entered my courtyard was older than I expected.
Lines etched her face like the folds of a crumpled letter—creases made not by time, but by the weight of memory. Her left sleeve was pinned neatly at the shoulder, and her right hand held a bundle of fabrics the way a soldier might cradle a blade—wary, reverent, ready.
She didn't bow. Just stood in the sunlight like she had every right to breathe the same air as me.
And she did.
"You're the one who sent for me?" she asked. Her voice was low, raspy, like silk dragged across ash.
"I am," I replied, not rising from the chaise. I sipped my tea instead, eyes on hers. Cool. Unmoving. Waiting.
She didn't flinch. Not when my gaze sharpened. Not when the guards tensed. She was long past fear.
"I'm told you used to work in Yuan Siyan's household."
"I was a seamstress," she answered. "One of the last to leave with both eyes intact."
