Morning mist still lingered above the Liang River when Lin Qing Yun stepped out of her car.
Across the street, a cluster of reporters and gossip bloggers stood waiting with cameras, their breath fogging the cool air.
Lenses tilted toward her as soon as she appeared — quiet clicks, soft whispers, the sound of vultures waiting for a tremor.
She walked past them without slowing.
Her pale blue shirt fluttered slightly in the wind, her steps steady as she crossed the stone path toward Jiù Mèng Xuān. She didn't hide behind sunglasses or masks. Her expression was calm, the same quiet composure she always wore, as if she'd simply come to water the plants.
"Miss Lin!" someone called.
No answer.
She reached the studio's wooden gate, turned the brass handle, and went inside.
The sound of the door closing silenced the murmurs behind her.
Inside, the air smelled of ink and aged silk.
Master Shen looked up from his workbench. "I wondered if you'd still come today," he said mildly.
Qing Yun placed a thermos of tea beside him. "Work doesn't stop because people talk."
He chuckled, pouring the tea into a small porcelain cup. "Noise passes. Skill remains."
She smiled faintly. "That's what you always say."
---
The World Outside
Online, the noise had not passed.
Gossip accounts still fed on the previous scandal, posting side-by-side photos of Qing Yun and her late mother, Lin Hui Zhen, captioned with dramatic titles:
> "From Shadows to Silk: The Secret of Gu Ze Yan's Woman."
"Daughter of Scandal—Now the Face of Luminar."
"Silence Equals Admission?"
Hundreds of comments poured in.
> "She won't deny it because it's true."
"Poor Gu Ze Yan, can't tell what's real anymore."
"Maybe she's just strong enough not to care."
But in real life, Lin Qing Yun sat quietly at her table, gluing together the edges of a torn handscroll, her brush steady, her breathing slow.
Outside, the world shouted. Inside, she restored silence.
---
The Quiet War
By noon, her assistant peeked into the studio. "Miss Lin, reporters are still outside… Should we ask security to move them away?"
Qing Yun didn't look up. "No need."
"But they're taking pictures—"
"Let them. They'll get bored once they realize I'm not giving them what they want."
The girl hesitated. "Don't you feel angry?"
Qing Yun dipped her brush into glue, aligning a thin paper seam. "If I let strangers decide what I feel, I'd have no space left for my own thoughts."
The girl blinked, unsure what to say.
Master Shen, who had been listening quietly, smiled beneath his white mustache. "That's what it means to restore something properly. Patience is not weakness, it's mastery."
Qing Yun gave him a small nod of gratitude, then returned to her work.
---
Night Call
When evening came, she returned to her apartment, exhaustion settling into her bones.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately — Gu Ze Yan.
He looked tired on the screen, hair slightly messy, still in his office. The light behind him was dim, his eyes shadowed.
"They're still talking," he said quietly.
"Let them," she answered, curling up on the sofa. "They'll get bored eventually."
"You shouldn't have to endure it quietly."
She smiled faintly. "I've endured worse in silence. This one's easy."
He watched her for a long moment, his expression softening. "You always sound strong when I'm not there."
"If you were here," she teased, "I'd just cry instead."
That made him laugh — low and genuine. "Then it's probably good that I'm not there right now."
"I didn't say I prefer it," she murmured.
The warmth in his eyes deepened. "I'll end this soon. I promise."
"Don't," she said softly. "If you fight every noise, you'll forget what peace sounds like."
Ze Yan fell quiet, the kind of silence that wasn't distance but understanding.
"Then stay still," he whispered. "And I'll be your quiet."
Her lips curved. "Deal."
---
Across the city, in her penthouse overlooking the river, Jiang Yi Rong stood by the window, her reflection caught in the glass like a ghost.
Her assistant hovered nervously nearby. "Miss Jiang, it's been three days. No public response. No post. She goes to work every day like nothing happened."
Yi Rong turned, her expression sharp. "Nothing?"
"She even smiled at the reporters."
Yi Rong's hand tightened on her wine glass until the stem cracked slightly. "Smiled?"
"She… bowed, said good morning."
The glass shattered in her hand. Red wine spilled down her wrist like blood.
"She thinks silence will save her?" Yi Rong hissed.
The assistant swallowed. "Some people online say her calmness makes her dignified, even admirable—"
Yi Rong cut her off, voice glacial. "Then we'll see how long that composure lasts when I take something she truly values."
She strode to her desk, opening a black folder stamped Luminar Systems – Internal.
A small, satisfied smile curled at her lips. "Let's see what happens when the empire starts to shake."
---
Midnight Restoration
At Jiù Mèng Xuān, everyone had gone home.
Only Qing Yun remained, lamplight washing her face in gold.
The manuscript before her was nearly finished — a fragile 18th-century letter, its corners darkened with age.
She pressed the last patch gently, smoothing the seam with the warmth of her palm.
Her reflection in the glass pane looked older, calmer — but unbroken.
She thought of her mother, Lin Hui Zhen, a woman whose name people now spat with contempt.
She whispered quietly, "They'll never understand you. But I will."
A faint smile touched her lips — not of sadness, but release.
"They only remember the dirt," she murmured, "never the hands that tried to wash it."
She turned off the lamp, letting the room fall into soft darkness.
Outside, the city still hummed — distant, relentless — but within her, everything was still.