Chapter 13: Smoke Over the Mountain
Valerie returned to her self-imposed exile in the high mountains, where the world below felt like a distant echo. The air was sharp and crisp, laced with the scent of pine and damp stone. Her temporary home was a secluded wooden cabin tucked within the folds of mist and silence—gifted by the family whose daughter she had come to heal. They had contacted her through the World Heart, following every instruction without question, including the unspoken rule: never ask about her identity. She wore her mask always. Not just over her face—but over her past.
Her stomach rumbled, pulling her back to the present. She hadn't eaten since dawn, and the intensity of her work had drained her. In this lonely place, there was no chef to prepare elaborate meals, no maid to set a table. Only her. And the one thing she knew how to make.
An omelet.
The eggs sizzled softly in the cast-iron pan as she stood over the gas stove. She didn't bother seasoning it beyond salt and pepper. She cooked with quiet urgency, flipping the omelet with practiced detachment. It was always the same—simple, golden, warm.
And lonely.
She sat at the wooden dining table, the plate before her, untouched. A painful weight settled on her chest as she stared at the steaming food. She didn't like eating alone. She never had.
"Food is best enjoyed with family," her mother used to say, smiling as she set dishes down on their modest dining table. Those meals had once meant the world. Laughter, stories, warmth—the kind of happiness that made time slow.
That was before everything broke.
Her eyes darkened as she thought of the day everything shattered.
It was Sophia's mother who had asked to meet with her mother. A polite message at first, wrapped in faux kindness. But beneath that velvet was a dagger. Valerie hadn't understood what it meant back then. She'd only been a girl. But her mother had gone to that meeting... and come back someone else.
"Your father has another family," she'd whispered hours later, eyes hollow, hands trembling. "A daughter. About your age."
It broke her. Not with tears—but with silence. Her light dimmed until she barely spoke at all. Her movements slowed. Her laughter never returned. The woman who once sang while stirring soup turned into a ghost who stared out the window for hours.
She died not long after.
Valerie chewed slowly, bitterly, the omelet like ash in her mouth. She was too proud to cry. But the hurt lived in her bones. Every bite brought memories—uninvited and cruel.
The silence around her deepened.
She reached for her thermos of herbal tea, brewed to calm the heart. She sipped it slowly, trying to ground herself, knowing the day's real work wasn't over. The patient—bedridden for twelve years—was waiting. Valerie had promised she would not give up. And she wouldn't.
Not this time.
Just as Valerie pushed her chair back, ready to return to her tasteless omelet, a soft knock echoed at the cabin's front door. Three taps. Gentle. Respectful.
Valerie's brows drew together.
She walked to the door but didn't open it. Instead, she waited a few seconds—long enough for the visitor to be gone—then slowly pulled it open.
There, placed neatly on the wooden step, was a deep green thermo container. Steam still rose faintly from the spout.
She looked around the empty clearing beyond the porch. No one in sight. No voice calling to her. Only the faintest scent of ginger, rice, and wild vegetables drifted upward.
It was the woman again.
The mother.
Valerie had never seen her face—only caught fleeting glimpses from behind her mask. But she felt her presence. Soft, sincere, desperate. She knew grief. She carried it like a shawl.
What Valerie didn't know—what no one had told her—was that the patient inside the quiet cabin was Yurman Albert, heir to the sprawling Albert Empire, a dynasty of more than ten thousand stores in twenty countries. A boy once groomed to lead one of Europe's most legendary families, now reduced to breath and bone, trapped in bed for over a decade.
His mother, Jeniffer Albert, had cast aside her pride, her luxury, her power—just for this sliver of hope. And she would abide by every rule Valerie gave. Even if it meant never seeing the face of the woman who might save her son.
Valerie picked up the insulated container from the floor just outside her door. The faint scent of freshly steamed rice, herbs, and meat seeped through the thermo-sealed lid. She blinked at the small paper note tucked beneath the elastic band.
"I hope you eat well today. We are grateful beyond words. – Jennifer."
She paused, fingers grazing the edges of the paper, before retreating inside and quietly shutting the door. Jennifer... the mother of the boy she was healing.
And here she was—mask on, identity sealed—tasked with saving their only heir, Yurman. She'd never even seen his face clearly. Just the contours of his condition, the fatigue in his organs, the stasis in his meridians.
She brought the food to her tiny corner table, and as she uncovered it, her stomach let out a quiet whimper of need. But even now, the scent of it made her hesitate.
She hated eating alone.
She always had.
Her hand stilled over the spoon.
Her mind drifted—back to her mother.
---
Her mother believed food was not just for nourishment—it was for family, for laughter, for healing the unspeakable things that tore people apart.
But everything changed the day the truth shattered her fragile life.
Valerie remembered the exact moment—her mother had just finished plating dinner when her phone buzzed. A message. A number she didn't recognize. "Let's meet. I need to tell you about your husband and our daughter. She's about Valerie's age."
Sophia's mother.
Valerie could still hear the plate shatter on the floor. Her mother's breath catching midair. How she didn't cry—not immediately. Instead, she picked up the broken pieces slowly, as if rearranging them would stop the truth from sinking in.
Days later, her mother met with her husband's mistress.
And then she stopped eating at the table.
Valerie was twelve.
From then on, Valerie began eating in silence. Alone. Because her mother wouldn't. Because it was easier than pretending they were still whole.
The loneliness stayed with her.
And now—years later, in a remote mountain clinic, she sat once more with a warm meal before her and no one across from her.
She closed her eyes and whispered, "Bon appétit, Maman."
---
A soft ding interrupted the silence.
Her phone.
A message lit up the old device. The name made her chest rise and freeze.
Jackson.
How is the patient?
Three simple words. But they held the weight of a lifeline.
Valerie stared at the message, and everything around her seemed to fade.
---
Flashback – Two Years Ago
She was standing on the edge.
Of a rooftop. Of her life. Of every last shred of reason.
Rain slashed across her cheeks, blinding her. Her hands trembled as she looked down—at the blurry lights, the sharp promise of silence.
She had nothing left. No mother. A destroyed family. A name tainted by rumors she hadn't earned. A world that refused to acknowledge her brilliance simply because the Hudsons decided she didn't exist.
And just when her foot slipped forward, a voice behind her said—calm but firm—
"Don't make me climb up there after you. I hate heights."
She froze.
Turned her head slowly.
A man stood there—umbrella tilted against the wind, soaked white shirt clinging to his chest. His eyes were clear, intense, like he had seen a thousand people fall and wasn't about to add her to the list.
"I'm not worth saving," she had whispered.
"I'm not here to save you," he replied. "I'm here to give you one more reason not to jump."
She didn't ask for it. But he gave her a card anyway.
Dr. Jackson Wei.
Son of Dr. Longwei—the world-renowned healer who had long shut his gates to the outside world.
He left without pressing her. Without pity. Without promises.
She called him the next morning.
And that was the day everything changed.
---
Jackson became her compass. Her reminder that pain didn't mean the end. It meant there was still something to fight through. His father had trained thousands but stopped taking apprentices—until Jackson brought Valerie home.
Only then did the old master open the doors again. Only for her.
"You have what even I can't teach," he once told her. "You see where people are hurting even before they do."
Now, here she was—wearing the legacy of that training. Acupuncture. Herbal compression. Energy mapping. It all lived in her hands.
She looked down at the message again.
How is the patient?
Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed back:
"Still fighting. But so am I".
She placed the phone down gently.
And prepared to return to her bed to do some research on the blood she draw from her patient. The boy who still had a chance to live—because she once chose to live too.
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