Silence cloaked the gardens like a silk veil, soft and undisturbed. Yīngtáo and Mùchén sat opposite one another, steam curling from a small kettle of tea resting quietly at their side. The gentle rustle of leaves whispered with the breeze.
"Jiějiě..." Mùchén called softly.
"Are you alright?" he asked, concern laced in his voice.
Yīngtáo gave a faint nod and smiled.
Mùchén slouched back in relief, his shoulders relaxing.
"Where's Mother?" Yīngtáo asked gently.
"At the Flower Pond Garden. I took her there," he replied, his voice dimming with a note of hesitation.
"The floating blossoms seem to calm her down," he added, his gaze falling.
"I want to see her," Yīngtáo said, rising to her feet with quiet resolve.
"Can I come?" Mùchén asked, his eyes wide with worry.
"No, it's okay. I'll be back soon."
She smiled reassuringly before turning to leave.
"Okay... Jiějiě." Mùchén's voice followed her softly.
⸻
The Flower Pond Garden—how long had it been since she'd last stepped foot here? It was still beautifully kept. Lily pods floated with elegance, their surfaces dotted with soft pink lotuses that glided gracefully on the shimmering pond. A few koi fish swam beneath, their vibrant colors dulled under the moonlight as Yīngtáo walked across the arched wooden bridge.
At the far end, in a small open-air pavilion nestled beside the pond, sat an older woman. Her posture serene, her hands rested gently in her lap. Though she was well into her fifties, an air of youthful dignity surrounded her. Wrinkles curved softly along her forehead and smile lines told stories—stories heavy with sorrow.
Her silver-gray hair swayed gently in the wind as she sat with her eyes closed, deep in meditation.
Yīngtáo stopped at the threshold, hesitating.
Should I go back?
Is this the right time to ask?
Her thoughts surged, dragging memories along with them: the chains, the screaming, the betrayal. If only she could undo it all—change it. She had waited years for this moment, and now, she was either brave enough... or desperate enough.
"Yīng," the woman spoke softly, her eyes still closed.
Yīngtáo froze, startled.
"Come. Sit with me."
She obeyed, quietly settling on the floor opposite her mother, her breath held in anticipation. The woman's presence was still and commanding—like the surface of a deep lake before a storm.
"Speak, dear. I am listening."
Yīngtáo hesitated, trying to shape her words.
"Mother... I want to be direct."
She paused, then said with newfound determination, "I want to know more about our family's gift."
Silence.
Her mother's expression did not change, but something in the stillness shifted.
"I've already told you what you needed to know," her voice remained soft, unshaken.
"But... I want to learn," Yīngtáo said, her tone tinged with a quiet urgency.
As if triggered, her mother's eyes snapped open—gray, stormy, distant. For a second, she stared into the air behind Yīngtáo, as if she saw something far away... or something unseen.
Nervously, Yīngtáo glanced behind her. Nothing.
Only moonlight and still air.
She turned back. Her mother's silver eyes were locked on her now. They glimmered like whirlpools—deep, ancient, and unnervingly hollow. Those who didn't know her might think her blind. But Yīngtáo knew better. Her mother hadn't been born with those eyes. They had changed—because of what she had seen.
"Mother?" Yīngtáo called softly.
Her mother blinked, grounding herself again.
Yīngtáo, shaken, rose to her feet, thinking she had gone too far.
But before she could leave, her mother spoke.
"There are dangers... tied to the gift."
Yīngtáo turned slowly. Their eyes met. And for a brief heartbeat, her mother's gray gaze shimmered with hazel—her own reflection.
She sat back down.
"Gifts?" she echoed, puzzled. "There's more than one?"
"Yes." Her mother's voice barely wavered. "Every first-born daughter in our family inherits three gifts: the gift of healing... the gift of youth..."
She paused—her body shivering slightly, as if chilled by something unseen.
"...and the gift to see, cast, and alter predestined pasts and futures—so long as they are your own."
"That's the one I want to learn," Yīngtáo said. "I want to—"
"Change the past?" her mother interrupted. Her soothing tone now trembled.
"I knew this day would come," she said with a sadness that felt centuries old.
"What day?" Yīngtáo asked, voice strained.
"The day you would regret. The day your past would haunt you so deeply that you'd try to change it—once you found out that you could."
Yīngtáo went silent. Her fingers traced the scar on her left hand—a scar from a blade, once wielded by a friend. A blade engraved with words of wisdom, forged in honor... now tainted. She would never forget it.
"Then why won't my scar heal?" she asked, revealing it.
Her mother looked at it and replied gently, "Because you refuse to let go. You refuse to move on."
Yīngtáo's lips trembled. "I've tried. I swear I have. But like you said, the pain never left. It still feels fresh, like a wound that never closed. If there's a way to make it stop... to undo it all from the beginning—I will."
A flicker passed through her mother's body. A glitch. A momentary distortion—as though her very form trembled. Her eye? Her shoulder? Her whole being?
It was gone before Yīngtáo could fully register it.
"Fine," she said, rising slightly. "If you won't help me, I'll do it myself."
"No!" Her mother's voice rang out sharp and commanding.
"First lesson in accessing your gift: never attempt it alone."
She exhaled deeply. "I will meet you in your quarters tomorrow morning. Make sure not a single soul is near—not even Mùchén. No one must know."
Yīngtáo's eyes widened. "So... you'll teach me?"
But her mother's eyes were closed again, her mind returned to meditation.
Yīngtáo didn't press. She simply stood, bowed, and quietly walked away.