Morning arrived with lacquered calm.
The courtyard had been swept thrice before the first bell rang. Lantern cords were tightened, silk straightened, tassels aligned by hands that understood presentation was also a form of war.
The Suzhou delegation arrived without trumpet or noise. They entered the estate with the silence of water entering the mouth of a river—inevitable, unannounced, complete.
Among them were dignitaries from the Suzhou Cultural House, a handful of craft historians, and—unexpectedly—an elder lantern painter in plain robes whose presence did not match the polished shoes and gold pins of the others.
His hands were calloused.
Like someone who still touched wet ink instead of living in archives.
A steward from Meiyuan stepped forward and bowed in perfect etiquette.
"Welcome to Meiyuan Estate. Madam Li awaits at the main court."
The Suzhou officials nodded politely, eyes already sweeping the lanterns with impersonal assessment.
But the elder in plain robes did not move.
He had stopped beneath the first lantern line… eyes fixed on the seam lantern—still hanging in the lead position, still carrying its gold mark like a wound that had decided to become inheritance.
He stepped forward slowly, ignoring protocol.
Servants stiffened. Protocol did not allow anyone to enter the display line without permission.
The elder lifted his head, and for the first time, spoke—
"Ah… a seam in gold. Just like the Lin workshop in the old Suzhou winters…"
The courtyard stilled.
One of the Suzhou officials hissed under his breath, "Master, we do not—"
The elder ignored him entirely.
"This repair… this hand… this is Lin lineage work."
He said it clearly. Publicly.
Whispers moved like sparks along dry cloth—
"Lin lineage…?"
"But that contract was…"
"Didn't the Li family… sever ties…?"
Shen Yiran stepped forward smoothly, her voice measured.
"Meiyuan commissions quality, not lineage. We honor craft, not rumors."
The elder looked at her with the gentle pity only age can afford.
"My child," he said softly, "wood does not forget the first name carved into it simply because the family wishes to repaint the beam."
Yiran's expression did not crack.
But her posture shifted. Slightly.
A microfracture in poise.
Madam Li arrived then—like a seal pressed to parchment.
Suzhou officials straightened immediately. Even the elder dipped his head, respectful.
"Master Liang," Madam Li said slowly. "I did not expect Suzhou would send you."
Master Liang.
The last living artisan recorded from the old Suzhou Lantern Registry.
The man who once taught Lin craftsmen how to bind light to silk without burning it.
And the one who witnessed — decades ago — when the contract between Lin and Li families was silently broken.
Lin Xueyi stood at the far end of the courtyard, unnoticed by most… except one.
Master Liang turned. Slowly.
He didn't look at her clothes.
He didn't look at her face.
He looked at her hands.
Calloused from gold thread.
Steady from holding what others would let fall.
He smiled—not with joy, but recognition.
"Lin child," he said quietly, "you carry the seam correctly."
The words were not loud.
But the beam above them darkened, as if absorbing the sentence for record.
Li Tianhua saw it.
Not the beam.
Not the elder.
He saw her reaction—the way Xueyi did not bow, did not shrink, did not glow.
She simply stood.
And in that standing was a quiet refusal to pretend she had been invited.
The house noticed.
—To Be Continued…