The morning sun shimmered through the lattice windows of the Chen Palace, glinting on the rows of porcelain vases and the silken drapes that swayed faintly in the breeze. Yet beneath the bright light, the air was heavy — too still, too silent, as though even the walls dared not disturb their mistress's mood.
Lady Chen sat before her mirror, the soft scratch of her brush the only sound in the room. She painted her brows carefully — not too sharp, not too soft — the look of a woman who still wished to appear composed even when her heart felt like splintered glass.
Her maid Qing Lan stood quietly nearby, holding a folded silk handkerchief and several boxes wrapped in gold thread.
"My lady," she said softly, "the gifts are ready for delivery."
Lady Chen put down her brush and glanced at the boxes.
Inside them lay carefully chosen memories — things meant not to impress, but to remind.
