present
The huge gate creaked open, and the carriage rushed in, its wheels rattling against the stone path. Guards hurriedly approached the horses to steady them, while Yuhua, without waiting for assistance, gracefully stepped down and strode toward the estate. At the entrance stood an older woman in a flowing red and blue Hanfu, the silk trailing along the polished wooden floor like a river of memory.
A warm smile lit the woman's face, softening the age in her eyes. "My little empress," she said fondly, reaching out and taking Yuhua's hands in hers. "What did the gods promise you for you to grace me today?"
Yuhua returned the smile, her eyes shining with affection and guilt. She threaded her arm through her aunt's and gently guided her into the estate. The scent of sandalwood and plum blossoms greeted her like an old lullaby.
Her aunt was the last thread of warmth from a family nearly erased. The last one who still prayed for her well-being but was shackled by a court that steals her time and strength. It pained her how long it had been since she last visited.
Her aunt, once a vibrant matriarch, had lost nearly everything in a single cruel night. Bandits, hired under a noble's grudge, ambushed her family after her husband had dared to support Yuhua's father in opposing a land seizure. Her two sons had merely been at the wrong place, the wrong time—caught in the chaos. Her husband had died defending them. And her daughter… her daughter had vanished that same night, the echo of her name still haunting the halls.
Ever since then, the estate has grown quieter, heavier. But her aunt remained—gentle, dignified, and smiling even through grief.
As they stepped into the sunlit parlor, soft light spilling in through lattice windows, her aunt poured tea with steady hands. The clinking of porcelain was the only sound for a moment, and Yuhua found herself savoring the silence—so different from the buzz and whispers of the court.
"You've grown thinner," her aunt said gently, not looking up from the teapot. "Is the palace not feeding you well? Or is it the court, draining your soul instead of your stomach?"
Yuhua gave a tired smile, wrapping her hands around the warm teacup. "The court is… unrelenting. Everyone speaks, but no one says what they mean. I spend my days untangling threads of lies dressed as pleasantries. And when I finally return to my chambers, the silence feels like a punishment instead of rest."
Her aunt placed a hand over hers, her touch warm and grounding. "Your father warned me. He said becoming empress would mean becoming a symbol, not a woman. But I still prayed you'd find some happiness in it."
"I try to," Yuhua whispered, lowering her gaze. "But sometimes I feel like a ghost wearing silks. I pass through days with a smile, but inside, I'm just… surviving."
There was a long pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then her aunt stood and walked to a nearby cabinet. From it, she retrieved a small bundle wrapped in faded fabric and pressed it into Yuhua's hands.
"I stitched this the day your mother announced her pregnancy far back. I thought I'd give it to you on your wedding day, but…" She exhaled, eyes shimmering. "There was never time. And after everything, I feared it might bring sorrow instead of comfort."
Yuhua carefully unfolded the bundle. Inside was a delicate scarf embroidered with phoenixes rising from flames, their wings sweeping across gold-threaded clouds.
"I don't know how to rise from the flames," Yuhua said softly, her fingers brushing the embroidery.
"But you already have," her aunt said. "Every day you carry on, you rise. Even if it doesn't feel like it."
Yuhua blinked rapidly, clutching the scarf to her chest. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Her aunt smiled and reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Yuhua's ear. "You don't have to be strong all the time, my little empress. Not here. Here, you're still just Yuhua."
…
The sun dipped low behind the estate walls, casting golden ribbons across the garden path. Yuhua walked arm in arm with her aunt beneath the plum trees, their bare branches reaching toward the sky like open hands waiting for spring. The scent of earth and old memories hung in the air.
Lanterns flickered to life, one by one, their glow soft and amber. Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime sang, delicate and mournful. For the first time in weeks, Yuhua breathed without the weight of watchful eyes.
They strolled in silence, the kind that needed no words. Then her aunt spoke, voice low and cautious. "There have been rumors. About your cousin… my daughter."
Yuhua stopped, her breath catching. "What kind of rumors?"
"Whispers," her aunt said, eyes fixed ahead. "A merchant passing through the southern border claimed he saw a girl who looked like her—a healer among a group of travelers. Scar above her brow. Hair tied in the old house braid."
Yuhua's heart fluttered. "It could be her…"
Her aunt's voice trembled. "I've been hoping for so long that I fear hope itself. But if she's alive, if there's even a chance…"
"I'll send someone," Yuhua said quickly, already calculating which trusted scout could be spared. "Quietly. No court involvement. Just in case."
Her aunt's eyes welled up. "You would do that for me?"
"I'd do that for my family," Yuhua said. "The court may have taken my time, my ease, even my name… but it has not taken my heart."
A breeze stirred the trees, petals from late-blooming blossoms drifting between them like blessings. Her aunt gripped her hand tighter.
"Promise me," she said. "If they find her, you'll bring her home."
Yuhua nodded. "I promise."
They continued walking under the quiet plum trees, the sound of their steps soft against the stone path. The warm lantern light danced across Yuhua's features, but her thoughts had grown heavier.
"Aunt," she said softly, "you never told me what truly happened that night. The night you lost them."
Her aunt exhaled slowly, the breath of someone who'd carried silence for too long.
"It wasn't just bandits," she said, voice low, brittle. "It never was."
Yuhua turned to her, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
"There was a village near the eastern border," her aunt began, looking ahead, as if speaking to the shadows. "Peaceful people. Farmers. Nothing more. But the land they lived on had river access—ideal for trade. The ministers wanted it for years, to divide among themselves and lease to nobles."
Yuhua's lips pressed into a line. She remembered the name vaguely—Huangli Village. A place often spoken of in hushed tones in the archives, its existence barely acknowledged.
"They sent envoys to pressure the villagers to sell," her aunt continued. "When they refused, the ministers declared them rebellious. Said they were conspiring against the empire, stirring unrest. A lie—but one powerful enough to justify military force."
Yuhua's stomach turned. "Was that when Father tried to stop it?"
Her aunt nodded. "Yes. He stood before the ministers in court and called it what it was—land theft, hidden behind legal veils. Your uncle supported him, as did a handful of others. But they were few."
"And then… the fire," Yuhua murmured.
Her aunt's voice trembled. "That same week, bandits attacked our home. Or so it was said. But they weren't common thieves. They knew where to strike. They killed my sons before they could defend themselves. My husband died holding them back. And my daughter… she disappeared in the smoke."
A long silence fell between them, pierced only by the soft sound of wind through the trees.
"They burned the village not long after," her aunt added, voice hollow. "And the land was quietly handed over to the nobles. No trial. No mourning."
Yuhua's fists clenched. "And the court still dares to call them rebels."
"They rewrite the truth," her aunt said bitterly. "And silence the ones who remember."
Yuhua stood still beneath the lantern's glow, her breath shallow. The court, the ministers, the system she was forced to uphold—it was built on these buried stories. On the backs of the voiceless.
"I will not forget this," she said at last. "Even if I must smile and bow in court, I won't let their stories fade."
Her aunt placed a gentle hand on her cheek. "Then be careful, my little empress. Because remembering… is dangerous."