The scent of plum blossoms lingered in the air long after Mei Lin had returned indoors.
That night, she sat by the hearth, her hands cupped around a bowl of warm tea made from lemon balm and dried orange peel. The fire crackled softly, casting flickers of gold on the wooden walls of her small home.
Peace had returned to her, but it felt different now — not the fragile, tentative peace of survival, but the grounded, earned peace of someone who had stood through the storm and remained unmoved.
It was while she watched the fire's dance that a thought came to her.
A house of healing.
Not just a corner of her home, or a few bundles of herbs along the fence — but a proper space, open to all. Somewhere the villagers could come without needing an excuse, without waiting for her to pass by.
A place where she could teach, treat, and grow in ways her solitary work had never allowed.
It didn't need to be grand. A shaded room, a few beds, organized shelves of herbs, and a table to grind roots and weigh powders. A place with structure, comfort, and openness.
The next morning, she walked around the courtyard, a stick of chalk in hand. She measured the angles of sunlight, how rain pooled after storms, how much space she had along the left side where the old plum tree arched its limbs.
It could work.
She began by writing ideas on scraps of parchment:
Raised shelves for herbs
Clay jars for dried powders
A small screen for privacy
Wooden benches
Clean cloth for bandages
Boiling pot for disinfecting tools
By midday, she had a rough plan drawn with careful, practiced strokes.
Later that week, she visited the carpenter — the same old man she had once treated for swollen joints.
"You want to build… a what?" he asked, raising a grizzled brow.
"A place for the sick to come. A house of healing. Just a room, or two."
He stared at her, silent for a beat, then smiled. "I'll help. No charge."
Mei Lin bowed low. "I can't accept it for free."
"You already paid," he replied, tapping his cane against the floor. "My legs work now."
Word spread quickly.
Auntie Rong came by with old curtains to stitch into patient screens. The baker's son offered spare wood.
Even Lianhua, perhaps feeling the weight of her past harshness, came quietly with a bundle of clean cotton cloth.
Mei Lin accepted it all with quiet gratitude.
Children followed the construction with wide eyes. Some drew stick figures in the dirt outside the courtyard, pretending to mix potions or treat imaginary injuries.
"Will you have a bell we can ring?" one boy asked excitedly.
"Maybe," Mei Lin smiled.
By the end of two weeks, the structure stood — modest, but strong. The inner walls were coated with a soft plaster made from lime and rice paste.
Sunlight streamed through a bamboo-slatted window, warming the polished wooden floor. The scent of cedar and rosemary hung in the air.
The villagers began referring to it simply as Mei Lin's House.
She placed a slate board by the entrance, where she chalked the days she would be seeing the sick — and left it blank on days she wished to rest or travel.
People came.
A woman with sore knees from the fields.
A child with summer rashes.
A grandfather who simply wanted his pulse taken, "for peace of mind."
There were no fees. Mei Lin never asked.
Sometimes she was paid with sweet potatoes, sometimes with barley tea, sometimes with just a whispered thank you.
One day, an elderly woman came in with her son — a man who hadn't spoken since his return from a mine collapse.
Mei Lin gave him calming herbs, sat with him as he stared at the ground, and returned his silence with patience. She didn't try to pry open wounds she didn't understand.
He returned the next week. And the next.
By the third visit, he spoke.
Just one word: "Thanks."
It was enough.
In the evenings, Mei Lin recorded every case in a small journal: ailments, herbs used, results. Her knowledge grew — and so did her heart.
When a traveling merchant passed through the village and heard about the "Healing Lady," he stopped by out of curiosity. She treated his aching shoulder, and he, in return, offered to bring back rare herbs from the southern provinces.
"I pass this way every two months," he said. "I'll trade."
And he did.
With time, her once-simple garden bloomed into a living apothecary. Vines curled along trellises, shelves overflowed with neatly labeled jars, and the scent of mint, ginger, and lavender wafted through the air.
The village had changed, too.
No longer did people whisper doubts or spread cruel rumors. They watched their children run healthier, their elderly walk steadier. They watched neighbors return with smiles from Mei Lin's House.
Even Lianhua, after months of quiet, began sending patients her way.
"I heard you helped my cousin's boy," she said one morning, eyes downcast. "Thank you."
Mei Lin nodded. "He's strong. He'll recover quickly."
They said nothing more, but something old and bitter softened between them.
On the first full moon after the healing house opened, the villagers gathered to bring her gifts. Not out of obligation, but gratitude.
There were baskets of fruit, bolts of cloth, a freshly carved wooden sign:
"Healing Garden — Welcome, Always."
Mei Lin hung it with her own hands.
That night, as fireflies danced and the plum blossoms swayed in the breeze, she sat under the old tree, a cup of jasmine tea in hand.
Her rocking chair creaked gently as she looked out at the garden — no longer just her garden, but one for all.
She thought of the long road she had walked. The pain she had hidden. The man she had once waited for under this very sky.
And yet, here she was.
Not waiting.
Not hoping.
Living.
Living with purpose.
Living in peace.
And for the first time in a long while, she did not look at the road hoping to see someone arrive.
She looked at the stars and whispered, "Thank you for leading me here."
And then she slept — not out of exhaustion, but contentment.
Tomorrow, there would be more people to heal.
But tonight, there was rest.