The knock echoed once.
Then silence. A hollow, expectant silence that seemed to swallow the sound whole.
Shen Rui waited.
No footsteps answered. No movement from within. The door remained closed, its surface worn smooth by time and weather, unremarkable in every sense. Yet, the wood felt strangely familiar under her knuckles, as if the grain of it held a secret she wasn't yet allowed to know.
She frowned slightly.
Another knock—firmer this time. A command, rather than a request.
Still nothing.
Shen Rui glanced around. The place was clearly occupied. Fresh herbs hung beneath the eaves, their scent faint but unmistakable. A bowl of water sat by the step, recently changed. Someone lived here.
Or had lived here very recently.
Her gaze lingered on the door longer than necessary before she straightened. Her shadow stretched across the threshold, a dark stain on the humble wood.
"Inconvenient," she murmured. But the word felt like a shield, protecting her from the sudden, sharp ache in her chest.
She turned away just as voices carried down the road.
"…she should be back soon."
Shen Rui paused. The world seemed to hold its breath.
Two villagers approached, baskets in hand. They stopped when they noticed her, eyes widening at her attire and bearing. To them, she was a frozen statue of a goddess, beautiful and terrifying.
"Is this the healer's residence?" Shen Rui asked.
"Yes," one of them replied quickly. "She went out earlier. Said she had something to deliver."
"When will she return?"
The woman hesitated. "Hard to say. Sometimes it's quick, sometimes—"
"She doesn't always keep regular hours," the other added with an apologetic smile.
Shen Rui nodded. "I see."
She considered waiting.
The thought lingered—brief, unnecessary, irrational. A ghost of the girl she used to be, sitting on the steps of the Northern Wing, waiting for a Master who always came home.
Instead, she said, "When she returns, inform her that Qinghe Sect has reviewed the situation. Supplies will be delivered within the day."
The villagers exchanged a glance. "You're from Qinghe?"
"Yes."
"Then… you're quite important, aren't you?"
Shen Rui did not correct the assumption.
"Just tell her."
She turned to leave.
Behind her, the villagers whispered.
"She didn't even ask the healer's name."
"Does she need to?"
"She looks… cold." Cold enough to freeze the very spring air around her.
Shen Rui heard none of it.
She had already stepped away from the clinic, her pace measured, expression unchanged. And yet, after several steps, she slowed.
Something brushed against her awareness.
A presence—faint, fleeting—like the echo of warmth lingering after a fire had been extinguished. It was a trace of qi so familiar it felt like her own heartbeat, vibrating in a frequency she had spent five years trying to forget.
She stopped.
The air felt different here. Thicker. Heavier with the weight of unsaid things.
Shen Rui turned back once more.
The door remained closed.
Nothing moved. Nothing waited.
Her jaw tightened imperceptibly. The mountain did not bend, but for a moment, it trembled.
"This is inefficient," she said softly, to no one.
She turned away for good.
Not far from the village, on a narrow side road, Lin Yue paused.
The basket in her hands felt heavier than it should have. Every breath was a negotiation with a body that no longer obeyed her.
She frowned slightly, pressing her fingers briefly against her side before steadying herself. For reasons she could not name, her chest felt tight—as if she had forgotten something important.
Or someone. A phantom pull at her soul-thread, sharp and sudden.
She looked back once, toward the village. The silhouette of the mountain peaks loomed in the distance, blue and jagged like a broken blade.
Then she lowered her gaze and continued walking. She was a healer now. She had no business looking at the sky.