Moon followed the thread. Not quickly. Not bravely. She followed it the way one follows something that has already decided her fate.
Bare feet brushed against the cold floor, each step uncertain, each breath shallow and uneven, the wooden planks cool under her soles like the mountain's rock she'd left behind. The white thread glowed faintly as it drifted ahead of her, tugging her little finger forward with a patience that felt almost cruel. It did not hurry her. It did not stop for her fear. It simply led, insistent as the flute's note that had started it all, silver and pure, weaving through the dark.
Her hair hung loose around her face, tangled and wild from the run, strands sticking to her damp cheeks where the tears had dried sticky. The robe slipped further from her shoulder as she walked, unnoticed, forgotten in the haze—the silk whispering against her skin, cool air brushing the exposed curve of her collarbone. Her hands trembled—not violently, but constantly—like her body understood something her mind still refused to accept, fingers curling and uncurling at her sides.
The palace corridors stretched long and unfamiliar, yet strangely silent, as if the world itself had stepped aside to let her pass. Red pillars loomed at intervals, their lacquer gleaming faint in the moonlight spilling through lattice windows, carved cranes frozen mid-flight on the panels, silk curtains hanging still without a breath of wind. The air hung heavy, jasmine faint from the vines outside, but under it, the scent bloomed stronger—night orchid, velvet and ancient, pulling her deeper with every step.
The flute grew louder. Not sudden. Not sharp. Clear.
Each note unfurled slowly in the air, steady and deliberate, like a call that had been waiting far longer than tonight. Moon's breath stuttered in her chest. That sound— Her steps faltered, one hand pressing to the wall for balance, the wood smooth and cool under her palm. That sound was wrong. Or rather… it was too right.
Her heart began to pound harder, her chest tightening as another sensation washed over her, blooming deep in her lungs. The scent. Her fingers curled reflexively, nails biting into her palms. That fragrance— that soft, ancient sweetness— that warmth that sank deep into her bones— She had smelled it before. Not here. Not in this palace. But there.
Her breath caught painfully—sharp hitch, knees buckling a touch. "…This scent again…" Her voice came out hoarse, barely more than air, echoing faint off the pillars.
The same scent that had lingered around her that night. The night before everything broke. The night before the mountain. The night before she disappeared from her world—cold apartment, empty bowl of ramen, the book open on her lap under the lamp's harsh glow, pages worn from too many turns.
Her breathing turned uneven, chest rising and falling too fast as her mind scrambled, fragments flashing: the café's burnt coffee, mom's old scarf in the closet, Wèi Chén's laugh echoing empty. Not again. Why is it here again? Why now?
Her steps slowed until she stopped entirely—hand on a pillar, the carved crane under her fingers seeming to watch. The thread drifted forward—and stopped. Moon lifted her head slow.
There, before her, stood a door.
Not grand. Not ornate. Just a door. Tall, pale, standing alone where no wall should exist, the wood smooth and unmarked, the thread slipping beneath it through a narrow gap, as if this had always been its destination.
Moon froze. Her heart thundered violently in her ears—loud, erratic, drowning the flute's last echo. A door meant answers. A door meant truth. A door meant that whatever had been calling her—whatever had pulled her across worlds, across sense and logic—was waiting on the other side.
Her hands trembled harder now, fingers curling into her sleeves, the silk bunching under her grip. "…So this is the end…?" Her voice wavered, small in the hush, the moonlight spilling across the floor like a path she couldn't turn from.
The flute grew louder—closer, each note pressing against her chest, vibrating through her bones, filling her head until there was no room for doubt left, the melody weaving tight around her heart.
The scent thickened. Warm. Heavy. Overwhelming.
It wrapped around her like invisible arms, not suffocating, but insisting, blooming velvet in her lungs, chasing the fear with something deeper, older. Her head spun slightly, knees weakening as memories flashed through her mind—fragmented, overlapping: the mountain's wind whipping cold, the petal's touch warm without burn, the book's pages flipping wild under her fingers, ink glowing on the blank: A New Fragrance From Another World.
"…This thing…" she whispered, staring at the door, the wood seeming to hum faint under the thread's glow, "…this thing has been pulling me for a long time, hasn't it?"
Her heart ached with the weight of that realization— not just since arriving here. Not just since the mountain. But before. Long before. The café's closing rush, the apartment's empty echo, the book's pull on lonely nights.
Her breathing turned ragged—chest heaving, hands pressing to the door now, wood cool and steady under her palms. I need answers. The thought cut through the fear like a blade, sharp and clear. I can't keep running. I can't keep pretending this is an accident.
Her trembling hand lifted slow— paused, hovering inches from the wood, the thread's glow pulsing faint. For one heartbeat—just one—she considered turning back, the futon's safety, Obāsama's warm hand, the palace's rhythm she'd just begun to learn.
Then the flute reached its clearest note yet—long, pure, filling the corridor like light.
Moon squeezed her eyes shut—lashes wet, breath pulling deep. "…Fine," she whispered shakily, the words tasting like surrender. "…I'll look."
Her palm pressed against the door. And pushed.
The door opened— light burst forward. Not blinding—alive.
White petals exploded into the air, flooding past her in a rushing wave, swirling like lantern flames caught in wind. Each petal glowed softly, illuminating the darkness around her as they drifted and spun, filling the space with warm, floating light that chased the shadows back.
The scent surged. So strong it stole her breath—velvet orchid blooming full, ancient and deep, wrapping her tight.
Moon staggered forward—gasping, one hand clutching the doorframe as the petals rushed past her like a tide, brushing her cheeks, tangling in her hair, the warmth blooming on her skin. Her heart raced wildly, her body overwhelmed by sensation—sound, scent, light—all crashing into her at once, the corridor fading behind.
"…What… is this…?" She stepped through— the door vanishing silent behind her, the petals pulling her on.
Moon froze.
She stood inside something vast. A space with no walls. No ceiling. No sky.
Yet it was not empty.
It felt like standing at the edge of an ocean—endless, deep, immeasurable—captured within the shape of a hall. Light flowed like water, gentle and shifting, reflecting endlessly in every direction, the petals drifting slow now, settling into patterns that resembled suspended lanterns, glowing softly in the distance like stars held close.
It was beautiful. Terrifying.
Her breath slowed despite herself, awe creeping into the cracks of her fear, the vastness pressing gentle, not crushing.
"…This place…" she murmured, voice echoing faint, swallowed almost immediately by the endless, the light rippling around her like waves on glass.
The flute played one last note. Long. Clear. Then— silence. Absolute.
The petals stilled—hanging in the air like stars frozen mid-fall, the light steady, the scent holding her close.
Moon's heart pounded—loud in the hush, her hands unclenching slow at her sides.
She swallowed—throat dry, the vastness pulling her deeper without touch.
She had crossed the threshold.
Whatever had been calling her was here. Whatever waited for her—answers, truth, purpose, or something far worse—was finally within reach.
She stood alone in the vast, ocean-like hall of light—hair loose, robe slipping, eyes wide and shining, breath trembling between fear and wonder.
And then— a presence.
Not seen. Not heard.
But felt.
The air shifted— subtle, like a breath drawn in the dark.
Moon's breath caught— lips parting, eyes searching the endless.
The light rippled once— soft, like water disturbed by a stone.
And the voice came.
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.