The twilight seeped through the carved oak windows of Meridian Pavilion, gilding the edges of half-finished embroidery hoops strung along the walls—each hoop hummed with the faint, residual warmth of a memory: a child's laughter stitched into sunflower-gold thread, a lover's whisper woven into moon-white silk, a grandparent's lullaby tangled in indigo linen. Lin Wan's fingers hovered over a snow-white silk cloth stretched taut on a bronze hoop; her right hand—cold, silver-plated at the knuckles, its joints etched with minuscule peony patterns, a "threaded soul prosthetic" forged from forbidden embroidery techniques—twisted a strand of glowing crimson silk around a needle carved from century-old bamboo.
The prosthetic never warmed, even when she wrapped it in the softest cloud brocade scraps. It was the cost of a deal she'd struck three years prior: to replace her hand, mangled in a fire that burned down her family's embroidery studio, she'd traded the memory of her mother teaching her to tie a silk knot. Now, the metal digits moved with the precision of a master embroiderer, but every stitch pulled a faint, hollow ache from her chest— a reminder that each deal she made chipped away at what little joy she had left.
A sharp, stuttering rap on the door cut through the hush.
Lin Wan's needle stilled. The rap was the kind she knew well: desperate, half-muffled, the sound of someone who'd followed rumors through back-alley teahouses and shadowed street corners to find the pavilion's secret trade: mending lost memories with thread, in exchange for a piece of one's own happiest moment. She set the needle down, its tip glinting in the twilight, and brushed a loose strand of ink-black hair from her face.
"Come in."
The door creaked open, and a draft carried the scent of jasmine hair oil and stale stage makeup. A woman in a frayed pink Cantonese opera costume stepped in, the hem of her robe frayed where it had dragged through mud, a chipped crimson button clutched so tight in her palm that her knuckles whitened. This was Lian Hua—Lin Wan had seen her posters once, plastered on theater walls: a girl with ink-black hair coiled into elaborate buns, a smile that could outshine the stage lanterns. Now, her eyes were puffy, her lip split from a fall, and her costume's silk trim was frayed at the cuffs.
"You're… the embroiderer who fixes memories?" Her voice trembled, as if she feared the words themselves might shatter.
Lin Wan nodded, gesturing to a stool draped in a faded silk cushion. On the worktable between them lay jars of thread: golden cloud brocade for uncomplicated joy, ash-gray "debt silk" for sorrow, iridescent pearl silk for quiet nostalgia, and the rare, glowing crimson silk she held now—reserved for memories tied to love or regret, threads that hummed with the weight of unspoken emotion.
"What memory do you want back?" Lin Wan asked, her tone steady, her prosthetic hand brushing a loose thread from the table.
Lian Hua's thumb rubbed the chipped crimson button. "Me and my shifu. The night she taught me to sing the final aria of The Peony Pavilion. It was raining—she made me hot ginger tea, the kind with rock sugar and osmanthus, and said my voice was 'soft enough to wrap around a moonbeam.' She even sewed this button onto my first stage costume, right here." She touched the hollow spot on her costume's collar, where the button should have been. "But after she died… I can't remember how she sounded. I can't even sing the aria right anymore. The audience hisses now. I'm losing everything." Her voice broke, and a tear splashed onto the button.
Lin Wan's gaze flicked to her prosthetic hand. Every deal took two things: the client's joy, and a flicker of her own. She'd already lost the taste of osmanthus cakes, the sound of her father's bamboo flute, the feel of rain on her skin—soon, there'd be nothing left but the cold metal of her hand and the hum of other people's memories.
"The cost," she said, her tone even, "is the memory of the first time you stepped onto a stage. The roar of the audience, the way the lanterns gilded your costume, the rush of knowing you'd made them hold their breath. Joy for joy—that's the rule of threaded deals. You can't get a memory back without giving one up."
Lian Hua's breath hitched. She stared at the button in her palm, then at Lin Wan's prosthetic hand, as if she could see the hollow spaces where memories had been. After a long, shaking pause, she nodded.
"I'll pay it."
Lin Wan picked up the bamboo needle. She threaded the crimson silk through the snow-white cloth first, stitching a tiny, chipped crimson button at the center—matching the one in Lian Hua's palm. Then she gestured for Lian Hua to hold out her hand; she pricked the woman's index finger with the needle, and a single drop of blood seeped into the silk, binding the deal. The thread glowed brighter, and Lin Wan closed her eyes, letting the hum of Lian Hua's memory wrap around her.
She wove in a strand of pale blue silk—Lian Hua's trembling breath, the sound of rain tapping against the studio window. Then a strand of golden cloud brocade: the warmth of the ginger tea, the weight of her shifu's hand on her shoulder. As she stitched, a faint, melodic voice hummed from the threads: "The peony blooms, but who does it bloom for?"
Lian Hua sobbed, leaning forward to touch the embroidery, but Lin Wan's needle pricked her wrist lightly— a warning. "Don't. The memory isn't yours yet. Not until the last stitch."
Lin Wan's prosthetic fingers moved faster, weaving in strands of silver silk for the lantern light, indigo for the rain. The cloth warmed under her hand, and the voice grew louder, clearer: her shifu's laugh, soft and warm, saying, "Your voice is a thread—treat it like one. Tender, but strong."
When the final stitch settled, the thread fell silent. Lin Wan cut the silk with a pair of bronze scissors, and the embroidery glowed once, then dimmed. She pushed the hoop toward Lian Hua.
"Touch it. The memory will unfold."
Lian Hua's fingers brushed the silk. Her eyes widened, and a smile spread across her face— the first real smile Lin Wan had seen from her. "I hear her," she whispered. "I hear her voice."
Lin Wan nodded, but her chest ached. She'd just lost the memory of the first time she'd sold an embroidery— a small, quiet joy, but a joy nonetheless.
As Lian Hua stood to leave, the door's latch clicked again.
Lin Wan's head lifted. Through the window, a shadow lingered in the alley— tall, sharp-shouldered, his coat lined with threads that glinted like frost in the twilight. Shen Yan. The "memory restorer" who'd been watching the pavilion for weeks, his pockets full of unspun debt silk, his eyes cold and curious.
He'd come for the forbidden thread. The thread that could unweave memories— and undo the deals she'd made.
Lian Hua left, clutching the hoop to her chest. Lin Wan stood, her prosthetic hand curling around the bamboo needle. The alley was empty now, but the frost-threaded coat's faint glint lingered in her vision.
The deal had only just begun. And this time, the cost might be more than a memory.