The smell of meat woke Bai Yue from her slumber.
For a split second, she forgot where she was. Forgot everything. Her eyes fluttered open expecting to see the wooden ceiling of her hut, Zhēn curled against her side, the sound of her husbands arguing about breakfast.
Then reality crashed back in.
She was still on the log. Still alone. Still in a Thousand Fang that didn't know her.
The cooking fire had been relit. Mo Xiao stood beside it, stirring something in a clay pot. He glanced at her when she sat up, narrowing his eyes.
"You slept," he said. "That's good."
Bai Yue didn't feel good. Her head throbbed. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Her chest felt hollow, like someone had reached inside and scooped out everything that mattered.
"Where am I?" she asked. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw.
"Thousand Fang," Mo Xiao said. "You knew that last night."
"No. I mean—" She pressed her palms to her eyes. "When is this? What year? What season?"
