Morning sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the Grand Archives.
The faint scent of ink and the gentle rustle of pages created a stillness that shut out the noise of the world beyond.
Xianlan sat at the central table.
Before her lay an ancient painting album, long believed to be lost—
only recently discovered during the restoration of the imperial library's old storage vault.
On the ivory-colored page, faded with time, was a delicate yet steady brush painting—
plum blossoms interwoven with bamboo leaves.
And in the bottom corner of the artwork was a signature she recognized instantly:
"Consort Yifei — Winter, Year 5 of the Fengming Era."
Xianlan's heart slowed strangely.
This was the very painting she remembered—one her mother had created for her.
But one day, it had mysteriously vanished… shortly before her mother was accused of envy and treason,
and later passed away under suspicious circumstances.
"Why… was this painting in the men's wing of the archives?"
"And who moved it there?"
⸻
The sound of soft footsteps made her look up.
Wen Yichen entered, sandalwood fan in hand as always.
"I knew you'd come here," he said gently, placing a small cloth-wrapped bundle in front of her.
When Xianlan unwrapped it, she found a copy of an old letter,
written in her mother's handwriting,
addressed to the governor of Jianrong.
"Your mother had written to a female envoy of Jianrong," Wen Yichen explained,
"offering to exchange paintings as part of a cultural collaboration."
"But her painting was blocked from release… and silently returned."
Xianlan's fingers trembled slightly as she held the aged paper.
"Who… was so afraid of my mother's painting being seen?"
Wen Yichen replied softly:
"Perhaps someone who didn't want the court to know that Consort Yifei had connections to foreign culture."
"Because that would mean… she had a 'voice' greater than some were willing to allow."
⸻
Xianlan looked up.
And at that moment, a single tear fell silently from the corner of her eye.
"I haven't cried in a long time," she murmured.
Wen Yichen handed her a small handkerchief.
The very same one he had given her when they were children—
frayed and old, but still carefully kept.
"If you're going to cry…"
"Then cry with me. At the very least, I won't walk away."
⸻
That evening, Jiang Xinluo received an invitation from the Archives
to view the newly uncovered ancient painting.
The moment she saw the plum blossom piece—the very one she had once seen hanging in her own mother's estate—
she froze.
"This is…"
"But… my mother told me it was a gift sent from the palace…"
Jiang Xinluo's hand trembled.
The thing she had once taken pride in—
now seemed like something that had been forced upon her family,
all to frame those who once stood by Xianlan's mother.
⸻
That night,
Jiang Xinluo stood on her balcony, gazing at the moon's reflection.
The cold wind brushed against her robes.
Her usually calm eyes now shimmered with doubt.
"I was trained to believe that everything has a purpose…"
"But if what I believed… was a lie—then who am I, walking this path?"