The night after the performance was oddly quiet.
Mei Lin sat alone in her small room tucked behind the velvet curtains of the upper floor, her delicate hands tracing the rim of a porcelain teacup.
The faint scent of rose incense still lingered in the air, a leftover from earlier preparations. Downstairs, the last of the customers had filtered out. The music had stopped. Laughter had faded.
But her heart was anything but quiet.
She had been trained to bow, to sing, to smile — but she was never trained for a look like that. When the Commander lifted his gaze to her — unreadable, sharp, and yet strangely… wounded — she felt the weight of years she didn't even know she'd been carrying. It was just a glance.
And yet, it was everything.
She barely remembered how she'd finished her song.
---
The next morning arrived with light footsteps and whispers.
"Mei Lin, the Commander is staying in town," one of the younger girls whispered as she passed by her door with a tray of tea. "He'll be around for a few days… maybe even a week."
Mei Lin didn't reply, but the slight tremble in her fingers as she tightened her robe gave her away.
She hadn't seen him again since the performance. No notes, no summons, no unexpected visits. Perhaps she had imagined the intensity in his eyes.
Perhaps he had simply been tired from war, and she was just another performer like the dozens before her.
Still, she found herself drifting toward the windows more than usual — peeking out at passing carriages and the shifting crowds beyond the wooden gate.
Waiting. Silently. Stupidly.
---
On the third day, the teahouse stirred with sudden life.
The Commander had returned.
Lanterns were relit, and the madam's daughter — Lan Rou — took it upon herself to prepare the finest wines and richest foods.
She wore red silk today, hair pinned high and dripping with pearls. Her gaze swept the room as though she already belonged to him.
Mei Lin watched from the shadows, unnoticed as always.
When the Commander entered, the room fell to a hush. His uniform was crisp, his boots clean despite the dust outside, and his eyes just as unreadable.
He exchanged a few polite nods and sat in the same seat from the other night — directly facing the stage.
But this time, Mei Lin was not asked to perform.
Instead, Lan Rou took the stage with a forced giggle and delicate dance, her voice soft and sultry as she sang one of Mei Lin's favorite songs — poorly. The Commander watched with detached courtesy, offering no praise, no criticism. Just silence.
It was almost cruel.
---
Later that evening, as guests dispersed and servants cleaned the hall, Mei Lin stepped out into the corridor. She had no plan. No excuse. Only a heart that beat foolishly faster as she neared the stairs.
She thought he had already left.
But there he was — standing alone under the paper lantern outside the courtyard gate, smoking quietly, looking up at the moon.
She froze.
He didn't turn.
"It's late," he said, his voice low and steady. "You should be resting."
"I couldn't sleep," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
A pause. Then, "Neither could I."
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable — just heavy. The kind that stretched across years and buried emotions, and yet felt oddly intimate.
"I didn't expect you to return," she said.
He finally looked at her.
"I didn't expect to remember your eyes."
Her breath caught.
That was the first real thing he had said to her — not as a soldier, not as a guest, but as a man.
---
He left again the next morning.
No farewell. No promises.
Just a look. The same look he had given her that first night — a mix of sorrow, longing, and something dangerously close to regret.
She told herself not to wait.
But every day, she checked the road through the tea house gates. Every time the wind rustled the bamboo blinds, she turned.
Hoping.
---
Then, two weeks later, he returned — and this time, he asked to see her.
They sat in the garden behind the teahouse, away from the drunken crowd, surrounded by fading chrysanthemums.
"You don't belong here," he said suddenly.
Mei Lin laughed softly. "And where do I belong, Commander? I was sold here when I was eight. This is all I've known."
"You deserve better."
She didn't answer. What was the point in speaking of dreams when even reality felt borrowed?
He placed something in her palm — a small wooden carving of a crane. Delicate. Simple.
"I carved it during a campaign last winter," he said. "I didn't know why I made it. I think… I do now."
She closed her fingers around it.
She said nothing.
Because her heart was already beginning to believe — and she feared nothing more than hope.