---
Word spread fast.
By the next morning, the entire village knew the truth.
The quiet, elegant woman who lived with Shèng Měi was none other than Princess Lù Zhāo—who had refused the throne and chosen a common life, and a woman, over all else.
Some whispered behind closed doors. Others stared in the streets. But no one dared approach.
Not because they feared her.
But because they respected her.
There was something untouchable in Lù Zhāo now—a grace that no longer came from crowns or titles, but from the bravery of her choice.
---
Shèng Měi had expected her neighbors to pull away.
But something strange happened.
The baker's wife dropped off warm buns in the morning.
The carpenter nodded as he passed.
The tofu vendor, the same one who had teased them weeks ago, left a note on their gate:
"Every heart deserves peace. Yours found it. Good."
And life went on.
More peacefully than they expected.
---
But peace wasn't for everyone.
Not that day.
Because that same evening, just as the sky began to darken and lanterns were being lit, someone knocked on their door.
Hard. Repeatedly.
Shèng Měi opened it without thinking—only to freeze.
There, barely standing, was her brother.
Shèng Lín.
His clothes were torn at the shoulder. His hair was a mess. His eyes were red. His breath reeked of wine and sleepless nights.
He looked like he hadn't been home in a month.
"Lín…" she whispered, shocked.
He didn't speak.
He just looked at her, and collapsed forward into her arms.
She caught him immediately, guiding him inside. Lù Zhāo stepped away respectfully, watching from the side, her expression unreadable.
Once the door was shut, and Shèng Měi helped him sit, he broke.
> "I failed him…" he choked out. "I was his knight. And I failed. I was a spy. A traitor. And he looked at me like I was… nothing."
Tears streamed down his face, staining her shoulder.
"I thought he'd kill me. I wanted him to. But he let me go. Like I didn't matter. Like I never meant anything."
Shèng Měi held him tighter. She had never seen her brother cry like this—not even as a child.
Lù Zhāo slowly approached and knelt beside them, her voice gentle.
"You still matter," she said.
Shèng Lín looked up at her, pain filling every line of his face. "Not to him."
"But to us," she said quietly. "And that's enough for now."
---
That night, Shèng Lín stayed.
He slept curled on the floor by the fire, clutching a pillow like a life raft, face twisted with dreams and memories.
Shèng Měi sat by his side, running her fingers through his hair like she did when they were children.
And across the room, Lù Zhāo watched, holding the paper crane Shèng Měi had given her—realizing that not all broken things stay broken.
Some return.
Needing help.
Needing healing.
Needing home.
---