The eastern wing of the Qi estate was quieter than the rest—a place for antiques, long-forgotten scrolls, and portraits of generations past. Ming Yue wandered its corridors one afternoon, fingers trailing over the intricate woodwork as Zhang Jia guided her through memories carved in lacquer and gold.
They paused beneath an oil painting of Qian Fei in her youth. Her curled hair fell like waves over her shoulders; a serene gaze lifted toward an unseen moon.
The words 'first day in Qi estate' were etched underneath the frame in golden.
"She was radiant," Zhang Jia said fondly. "She still is. But back then… she wore red silk like flame."
Ming Yue gazed upward. "I never saw her wear red."
"She stopped," Zhang Jia murmured. "After you were taken."
Silence bloomed.
Ming Yue swallowed hard and moved on.
In the servant quarters, lively chatter echoed as preparations began for the Lunar Bloom Festival. Trays of rose-dusted tangyuan, silk lanterns in the shapes of phoenixes and tigers, and bolts of brocade lined the halls.
Ming Yue helped the seamstress pin decorations to the banisters. Her presence stirred whispers—not of awe, but affection.
"She held my daughter's hand when she cried," said one cook softly.
"She brought tea for me when I collapsed in the garden last week," murmured a groundskeeper.
She was becoming something precious—not just the family's light, but the household's moon.
But not all watched with warmth.
At dusk, Ming Yue passed by the western threshold and felt a chill.
There stood a man in servant robes—mid-forties, skin rough, eyes hollow. He bowed deeply. But his gaze lingered too long.
"Good evening," she said politely.
"Evening, my lady," he replied, voice rough.
She moved past him—but looked back.
He still watched.
Later that night, Ming Yue sat with Shen Fei on the rooftop garden wrapped in fleece blankets.
"Do you trust everyone here?" she asked.
He tilted his head. "Why?"
"Just a question. Someone looked at me oddly today."
Shen Fei grew quiet.
"Old Lu?"
She paused. "That's his name?"
She recalled Zhang Jia mentioning this name before.
"He used to serve in the inner court. Got reassigned after… after you were gone. Jia doesn't speak much of him."
Ming Yue frowned. "He makes my soul feel cold."
Shen Fei chuckled softly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I'll keep watch for you."
That night, Ming Yue dreamt of silk threads unwinding from a tapestry—red, gold, blue… one thread black, curling silently toward flame.
In houses made of warmth, shadows still breathe.
The moon does not shine to be watched—it shines to reveal.