Chapter 11- Laughter & Memory

Sunlight spilled across the Qi courtyard like poured gold, warming the lotus tiles and coaxing jasmine blooms into full fragrance.

Ming Yue sat on the stone steps in a pale green hanfu, her maroon curls catching the light and coiling like embers in spring. She watched the maids string pink lanterns onto rosewood poles for the upcoming Lunar Bloom Festival.

Zhang Jia brought her a cup of chrysanthemum tea and sat beside her with a quiet sigh.

"Time slips like threads in a loom," she said. "This garden hasn't heard this much laughter in years."

Ming Yue smiled gently, watching a pair of young maids chase Qi Shen Fei with handfuls of peach blossoms. He darted past the tea table, mischief dancing in his blue-green eyes.

"They're trying to crown him the Peach Prince," she said.

Zhang Jia chuckled. "He should count himself lucky. They once called your father the Plum Emperor after a robe mishap."

Ming Yue blinked. "I need that story."

Later that afternoon, she joined the kitchen staff in shaping tangyuan. Her pale fingers pressed dough beside elderly hands that trembled with kindness.

"Miss Yue, do you remember helping me peel almonds when you were three?" asked Old Lin, the sous-chef.

She paused. "I think… I do. The bowl was too big. You made me my own."

Old Lin beamed. "That bowl still sits in the back cabinet. No one touches it."

Ming Yue touched his wrist gently, tears threatening her serenity.

This—this was family.

At dusk, she stepped into the estate's archive. Scrolls, relics, and letters filled the quiet space. She found a box labelled "Ming Yue – Year 1."

Inside: baby ribbons, a silver rattle shaped like a phoenix, her first sandal—and a drawing.

A crooked sun, a wobbly moon, and a stick-figure boy holding a girl's hand.

She traced the lines carefully, her light blue eyes shining.

Qi Shen Fei leaned against the doorway.

"You made me a giant-headed hero," he said.

She laughed.

"You were."

They stood in quiet communion as the stars blinked overhead.

And somewhere, in the servants' quarters, Old Lu polished silver in silence. His hands moved without flaw, but his eyes lingered too long on the moonlight spilling into Ming Yue's Garden window.

Family is not always remembered—it is re-learned.

With almond bowls, and crooked drawings. And eyes that watch with love… or something else.