Su Nian did not leave the archive immediately.
After the box was closed, after the floorboard was replaced, after Madam Duan instructed the room to be sealed again with a new access code and fewer names on the list, Su Nian remained where she was—kneeling on the cool floor, hands resting loosely in her lap.
No one rushed her.
That, too, was new.
Yichen stood a short distance away, silent. Madam Duan lingered near the doorway, posture composed but gaze thoughtful. Dr. Fang had retreated to a chair against the wall, where he sat very still, as if movement might disturb something fragile.
The archive lights hummed softly overhead.
Su Nian stared at the place where the box had been hidden.
Her grandmother had always liked hiding places.
Not because she feared being found, but because she believed that anything truly important should wait for the right hands. Su Nian remembered being told not to open drawers, not to pry into locked cabinets, not because she was forbidden, but because—
If you open something too early, her grandmother had said, you won't know what to do with what comes out.
Su Nian pressed her fingers together.
Her chest ached—not sharply, not painfully, but with the dull, constant pressure of something unresolved.
"She knew," Su Nian said quietly.
No one asked who she meant.
"She knew I'd come here," Su Nian continued. "Or someone like me would."
Yichen shifted slightly. "Do you think she expected it to be you?"
Su Nian considered the question carefully.
"My grandmother never believed in certainty," she said. "Only preparation."
Dr. Fang cleared his throat gently. "That sounds… exhausting."
Su Nian smiled faintly. "It was."
The smile didn't last.
She looked down at her hands, at the faint tremor she hadn't bothered to hide. "I used to think she was afraid. That was what the Su family said—that she was paranoid, old-fashioned, clinging to superstition."
Madam Duan spoke for the first time in several minutes. "Families often call restraint fear when it inconveniences them."
Su Nian nodded.
"I thought she was protecting me because I was weak," Su Nian said. "But she was protecting me because the world wasn't ready."
Yichen's gaze softened, just slightly.
"Are you?" he asked.
Su Nian didn't answer immediately.
She stood slowly, joints stiff from kneeling too long. The archive felt different now—not heavier, not lighter, but… acknowledged. Like a room that had finally been used for what it was meant for.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "But I know what happens if I pretend I don't see what I see."
Dr. Fang grimaced. "Nothing good?"
"Nothing kind," Su Nian replied.
She walked toward one of the shelves, fingers trailing lightly along the spines of old files. Names. Dates. Incidents reduced to ink and paper.
"How many people did she help?" Su Nian asked quietly.
Madam Duan joined her. "Enough to make enemies."
Su Nian's hand stilled.
"That's why she never accepted patronage," Madam Duan continued. "My mother offered it. Wealth. Protection. Your grandmother refused."
"Why?" Yichen asked.
"Because," Madam Duan said, "she knew protection turns into ownership."
Su Nian closed her eyes.
That sounded exactly like her.
"She used to tell me," Su Nian said, voice low, "'If someone pays for you, they'll want to decide how you're used.'"
Dr. Fang let out a small, helpless laugh. "She sounds terrifying."
"She was," Su Nian said softly. "But she was gentle with me."
The room fell quiet again.
Grief crept in—not as a wave, but as a settling weight. Su Nian felt it in the spaces between her thoughts, in the absence of the one person who had never asked her to explain herself.
Her grandmother had died quietly.
No ceremony. No apology from the Su family. Just an empty room and the sudden absence of warm hands.
Su Nian had thought that was the end of it.
She hadn't realized grief could echo.
"I never got to ask her why," Su Nian said.
Yichen looked at her. "Why what?"
"Why me."
The question hung in the air—not dramatic, not desperate, just heavy with years of unspoken wondering.
Dr. Fang shifted uncomfortably, then surprised all of them by speaking gently. "Maybe she didn't choose you because you were special."
Su Nian glanced at him.
"Maybe," he continued carefully, "she chose you because you were observant. Or patient. Or because you didn't look away when things were unpleasant."
Su Nian considered that.
Her grandmother had always corrected her gently when she tried to intervene too quickly.
Watch first, she'd say.
Then decide if the world deserves your effort.
"I think," Su Nian said slowly, "she chose me because I could live with knowing."
Yichen nodded once. "That's not a small thing."
"No," Su Nian agreed. "It's a heavy one."
Madam Duan stepped closer. "Inheritance is not always a gift," she said. "Sometimes it's a responsibility passed down because no one else survived carrying it."
Su Nian met her gaze. "Did your mother survive?"
Madam Duan hesitated.
"Yes," she said. "But she never forgot the cost."
The archive felt smaller now—not oppressive, but intimate, like a room where truths had been spoken aloud for the first time.
Su Nian straightened.
"I won't pretend I don't know what I know," she said. "And I won't use it thoughtlessly."
Yichen studied her. "And if using it changes you?"
Su Nian didn't hesitate. "Then I'll change with intention."
Something in Yichen's expression shifted—not alarm, not doubt, but respect.
Dr. Fang exhaled slowly. "I feel like I should be writing this down."
Madam Duan shook her head. "Some records don't belong on paper."
Su Nian looked once more at the shelf where her grandmother's work had been hidden.
"I don't know if I can do what she did," she said.
Yichen stepped closer—not touching, but present. "You don't have to do it the same way."
Su Nian nodded.
"I'll do it honestly," she said. "That's the best I can offer."
The key beneath her ribs pulsed faintly—not in command, not in urgency, but in acknowledgment.
Outside the archive, the Duan estate carried on—quiet, orderly, unaware that something old had been named and something new had begun.
Su Nian took a slow breath.
Grief did not vanish.
Inheritance did not lighten.
But for the first time, neither felt lonely.