The morning sun filtered through the carved lattice windows of the Qi estate, casting plum blossom shadows across the floor like forgotten poetry. The dining hall glowed with warm light, the scent of jasmine rice and slow-cooked duck stew drifting through the air.
Qi Ming Yue settled into her seat at the long marble table, facing the two souls who were her origin and her sanctuary—her parents, Qi Longwei and Qian Fei. Her fingers brushed the velvet napkin and trembled, though her smile remained radiant.
Across gleaming porcelain dishes, silver spoons hummed gently as broth was ladled with reverent care. Ming Yue watched steam curl upward like incense—graceful, indulgent.
And then, quietly, a thought flickered.
A chipped ceramic bowl. Burnt edges of old rice. A cracked chair beside the back exit. No greetings. No warmth.
She had eaten from scraps once—leftovers discarded without care. She remembered sitting beside the back pantry door in the Gu household, the cold breeze slipping through the cracks in the wall, chewing food meant for dogs. Her fingers were too numb to hold chopsticks then.
"Don't eat too slowly. This is what's left. Be grateful."
The voice—dry, dismissive, still echoed.
She blinked. The table before her was lined with folded linens, plum chutney, scallion buns—foods prepared with ceremony.
Qi Longwei raised his cup in silence, and Qian Fei reached across the table, stroking Ming Yue's hand once—a touch that said everything.
No outsiders could've guessed that this family, cloaked in elegance and quiet ritual, bore the remnants of an ancient phoenix bloodline—a lineage the heavens had nearly abandoned.
But they knew.
So did Wang Li, who stood in the shadows, arms behind his back, watching with eyes full of storm. He recalled her broken body wrapped in soot and silence… remembered lifting her from the ash like a flame trying not to flicker. And now, she sat here. Whole.
His gaze dropped to the red stone bird pendant resting gently against her collarbone.
His breath stilled.
Ming Yue noticed and smiled softly. A silent reassurance passed between them—a promise kept, a vow remembered.
As a maid served dumplings and rose tea, Ming Yue hesitated, looking down at the porcelain. Its surface mirrored her face… and something else. A shimmer, faint and fast, like a wingtip disappearing into light.
Was it real?
Her hand reached for the pendant.
Her lips whispered, barely audible:
"So I am really here."
She ate slowly, as if each bite held a truth she was relearning. Scents of jasmine and sandalwood wove around the room, and outside, the wind shifted—a single feather drifted past the open balcony and vanished.
No one saw it.
But above the glass ceiling, beyond plum blossoms and silk, the stars remained strangely silent.
And in the hush between heartbeats, fire stirred—not for war, but for memory.
She was home. And still… unfinished.