Golden sunlight filtered softly through the paper screens, spilling faint honey-colored lines across the tatami floor, turning the room into a quiet glow that chased the night's chill away. Birds chirped outside like they were warming up for some festival no one had invited her to, their songs light and scattered, mingling with the distant hiss of a kettle somewhere down the hall. The air smelled of fresh dew and faint cedar from the walls, the kind of morning that felt too peaceful to be real, like the world was holding its breath just to let you ease into it.
Moon stretched on the futon like a lazy cat waking from too long a nap, her hair exploding in all directions—wild dark waves sticking up at odd angles, one strand plastered to her cheek from the night's sweat. She groaned low, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand, the wool blanket tangling around her legs as she shifted. "...Where am I...? ...Why is everything so soft...?" The words mumbled out half-asleep, voice thick with the fog of dreams that lingered like smoke—flute notes twisting into petals, wind pulling her under. Her stomach growled then—loud, insistent rumble that echoed off the beams overhead, pulling her the rest of the way awake. "Ow. Hungry. Great." She sat up slow, robes rumpled from tossing, the silk cool against her skin, and blinked at the room: tatami giving soft under her, paper screen glowing warm, the low table still holding yesterday's empty tea cup like a silent witness.
The door slid open with a gentle shh—wood on track smooth as a sigh—and Hui-lan stepped inside, holding a steaming bowl on a lacquered tray, the aroma of rice porridge wafting ahead of her like a promise. The older woman's eyes softened the tiniest bit, lines crinkling at the corners as she took in Moon's bedhead chaos, her robe half-untied from the night's fidget. "You finally wake," Hui-lan said, voice warm but matter-of-fact, setting the tray down on the table with a faint clink. "Eat. It's plain, but filling."
Moon shot upright like a startled hamster—futon creaking under the sudden move, hair flopping into her eyes. "FOOD?!" The word burst out too loud, her stomach growling again in agreement, cheeks flushing hot under Hui-lan's steady gaze.
Hui-lan paused—tray balanced, brow arching faint. "...Yes." She straightened, smoothing her apron with hands that had folded a thousand linens, watching Moon scramble to sit cross-legged, knees knocking the table leg.
Moon grabbed the spoon—wooden thing smooth from use—and dove in, inhaling the porridge like it might vanish if she blinked. Steam burned her tongue first—"Hot—hot—hot—oh my god—hot—"—but she didn't stop, slurping the rice mush down in greedy gulps, grains sticking to her chin. "...but good—!!" The flavor hit simple and right: warm rice soft, a hint of scallion green, broth light and soothing, chasing the night's empty ache away. She puffed her cheeks full, chewing frantic, eyes half-closed in sleepy bliss, hair still exploding like she'd stuck her finger in a socket.
Hui-lan watched from the door, arms crossed loose, her face a mix of maternal concern—fingers twitching like she wanted to wipe Moon's chin—second-hand embarrassment at the gobbling, slight amusement crinkling her eyes, and that deep "this child is hopeless" sigh only a grandma could pull off without meanness. "Slow down," she said, voice firm but laced with a chuckle she couldn't quite hide. "You'll choke. There's more where that came from."
Moon puffed her cheeks fuller—hamster mode full throttle, spoon waving like a flag. "I'm Chowking—!" The word garbled out, rice spraying faint, her eyes wide with that sleepy gremlin glee, oblivious to the mess on her sleeve.
Hui-lan corrected gentle—leaning in with a cloth, dabbing Moon's chin without asking. "Choking." The word came out patient, like fixing a slipped stitch in knitting.
Moon nodded—still chewing aggressive, grin splitting around the spoon. "Right. Choking. Thanks." She swallowed big, the warmth settling deep, and slowed a touch, but the hunger won—another scoop diving in, the bowl emptying fast under her assault.
The door slid open again—shh quiet, pulling the room's air taut. Moon froze mid-bite—spoon hovering, rice grain dangling from the edge, eyes snapping to the entrance. Oh no. The serious man saw me eating like a raccoon. Her cheeks burned hotter, hair flopping forward to hide half her face, the blanket slipping off her shoulder in her scramble to look less feral.
Gao-shun entered with his usual calm gravity—hands behind his back, robes falling straight as a plumb line, eyes sharp but... softer than yesterday, the Gray holding a touch less edge, like the morning had filed it down. He nodded once to Hui-lan—brief, respectful—then looked at Moon, taking in the spoon mid-air, the porridge smudge on her lip, the wild hair halo. No flinch. No frown. Just... saw.
"I see you are awake," he said, voice low rumble, sinking to his knees across the table with that disciplined ease, the mat barely sighing under him.
Moon swallowed too fast—the rice lodging wrong, cough exploding out violent, hand flying to her mouth as she hacked. "I—yes—alive—awake—alive—thanks—" The words choked between coughs, face turning red, tears pricking from the burn. Hui-lan thumped her back gentle—firm pats, "Breathe, child"—and Moon wheezed it out, waving the spoon like a white flag.
Gao-shun waited patient—eyes on her face, not the mess, the Gray holding steady till the cough died to a rasp. He pulled a cloth from his sleeve—simple square, clean—and offered it across the table, no comment on the chaos. "Water?" The word came even, like he'd seen worse and called it Tuesday.
Moon took the cloth—mopping her chin, the cough fading to sniffles. "Yeah... water... please." Hui-lan poured quick from an ewer, cup sliding over, and Moon sipped grateful, the cool chasing the burn. "Sorry. Bad timing." She set the cup down, spoon abandoned, cheeks still flaming under his gaze.
Gao-shun shook his head—small motion, no judgment. "No apology needed. The body speaks when the mind rests." He straightened his back slightly—subtle shift, posture sharpening without tension—and rested his hands in his lap, fingers laced loose. "I have additional questions."
Moon nodded—quick jerk, wiping her hands on the blanket. "Of course you do— I mean, yes— sir." The "sir" slipped out awkward, her voice pitching high, the gremlin mode crashing into nervous ramble.
Gao-Shun's eyes held hers—calm anchor. "Your memory is unclear. But I must know... Do you recall your name?"
Moon lowered her spoon—the wooden thing clattering faint on the tray, silence dropping heavy as the porridge steam died. Her eyebrows drew together—slow furrow, eyes searching inward, digging through the fog that clung like wet wool. Mountain rock bit her palms again in memory, stars cold overhead, but the name... Moon? It flickered, then slipped, blank fog swallowing it whole. Nothing. A void where it should be, smooth as the tatami under her.
"...No," she said finally, voice small, tucking her chin down to hide the sting in her eyes. Throat tightened—not from tears burning up, but from the confusion she didn't want to look at too close, the blank space where me used to fit.
Hui-lan looked at her with surprise—eyes widening faint, hand pausing on the tray, the older woman's face shifting to that maternal crease, like seeing a crack in fine porcelain. Gao-shun's expression didn't change—no flinch, no pity line etching his brow. But something in his gaze sharpened briefly—quick glint, awareness flickering like light on water—then steadied, holding her without pressure.
Moon fiddled with the blanket edge—fingers twisting wool tight. "I don't remember anything. Not my home. Not my name. Not even... how I got here." The words came out flat, honest ache, her voice dropping to whisper as the room's hush amplified it. Hui-lan placed a gentle hand on her shoulder—warm palm, steady squeeze, no words needed.
Gao-shun studied her face for several quiet seconds—not cold, not harsh, just... assessing, Gray eyes tracing the furrow in her brow, the way her lips pressed thin. The lantern flame popped once, shadows dancing brief on the walls. "I understand," he said finally, voice even as the mat's weave. "Memory loss is... unusual. But not impossible."
Moon blinked—surprise cutting the knot, looking up at him through her lashes. He wasn't angry. Wasn't suspicious, calling her a liar or demanding proof. Just... responsible, like fixing a loose shutter before the rain hit. The weight eased a fraction, her shoulders dropping unseen.
Gao-shun rose then—smooth motion, robes falling around him like calm water over stone, the mat sighing faint under the shift. He adjusted the fold at his waist with hands that carried no hurry, turning to Hui-lan with a nod that said we're done here. "Rest," he told Moon, voice low rumble. "Food when you're ready. Questions can wait." The door slid open—shh—morning light spilling in a fresh gold rush, and he stepped out, the wood clicking shut behind him, leaving the scent of pine-earth faint in the air.
The door slid closed softly behind them, the paper screen settling still, muffling the room's hush to a distant echo. Gao-shun and Hui-lan stood in the hallway, away from Moon's hearing—the corridor empty now, sunlight slanting long across the planks, casting their shadows stretched like old friends. He turned to her, voice dropping low, the words for her ears alone.
"Observe her. Closely," he said, Gray eyes holding Hui-lan's kind ones, the command wrapped in trust. "If she remembers anything—anything at all—inform me immediately."
Hui-lan bowed—head dipping respectful, hands folding neat at her waist. "As you command," she replied, voice steady as the lanterns lining the hall, no question in it.
Gao-Shun's tone hardened a touch—protective edge sharpening, like a blade sheathed but ready. "And do not let her roam outside alone. Until we understand where she came from... the palace must remain cautious."
Hui-lan nodded again—deeper this time, eyes crinkling faint with that old granny wisdom. "Yes, lord Gao-shun." She watched him go—steps fading down the corridor, the light catching his robes in a ripple of blue—then turned back to the door, hand lingering on the frame. Strange girl. No name, no past. But eyes like she's carrying the sky. The hallway fell quiet again, birds calling distant, the palace waking slow around them.
Disclaimer
This work is a fan-made story inspired by The Apothecary Diaries. The world, its canon characters, and original setting belong to their creators.
Moon, her journey, and all new scenes written here are entirely my own creations. This story is shared purely for love of the universe and for personal enjoyment. No copyright infringement is intended.