Back at the house, Gracie and Stacie sat cross-legged on the floor, a scuffed wooden chessboard between them. The pieces clacked softly as they moved, and while neither could claim any particular skill, it was familiar—comforting in a way that reminded them both, just a little, of home.

  No stakes. No pressure. Just the soft clatter of pawns and the occasional sigh of defeat.

  “Was that supposed to be a trap?” Gracie asked, squinting at the board.

  Stacie snorted. “It was supposed to be a rook. I moved the wrong piece.”

  Gracie laughed under her breath and made a half-hearted move. “This is the worst game we’ve played yet.”

  After Stacie won two out of three, they agreed to call it a break. She stretched with a groan, muttered something about sore joints, and disappeared down the hallway to take a shower.

  Gracie stayed behind, curling up in the old living room chair, gently humming a tune from her hometown. The melody was simple, carried on the breath like something half-remembered. It filled the space easily, weaving through the warm stillness of the room.

  After a long while, a soft noise broke the tune—a creak, or maybe a click—from the front door.

  Her hum stopped mid-note.

  Turning her head, she saw an old man step inside, fanning himself lazily. He had a kind and weathered complexion, with silver hair pulled back in a neat tie. His steps were slow but sure, and his expression held the warmth of someone who had seen much and chosen gentleness anyway.

  Or maybe that’s just what he wanted to project.

  “Hey,” he greeted, voice calm and familiar. “I came to see how you’re doing. I’ve been rather busy today and haven’t had a chance to stop by the teahouse.”

  Gracie offered a small smile. “What were you doing?”

  “Oh, just taking care of a few things,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “Nothing too serious. I’m done with it all now, though, so I should be free starting tomorrow.”

  “More errands?” she asked, letting the question hang just a little longer than necessary.

  Cheng He tilted his head, amused. “Of a sort. Some errands are for people, some are for memories.”

  He wandered further in, his fan brushing lightly against his leg with each swing. The rhythm of it was hypnotic. Unassuming.

  “How’s my wife treating you?” he asked. “I hope she hasn’t been too rough. She’s got a... very particular kind of love when it comes to tea.”

  Gracie gave a soft chuckle, unsure how to answer that in full. “No worries. She’s great, really.”

  “She’s exacting,” Cheng He said. “But she means well. The best people often come off a bit sharp at first.”

  “She reminds me of someone back home,” Gracie offered. “My neighbor, actually. Used to scold me for picking flowers the wrong way.”

  “Did you learn?” Cheng He asked, smiling.

  “I learned to be quieter about it.”

  Cheng He nodded, seemingly satisfied. Then, from within the folds of his sleeve, he produced something unexpected—a fan. It was delicate, elegant. Carved bamboo spokes framed painted rice paper, the image of a misty mountain trail winding into a horizon you couldn’t quite see the end of.

  “I heard you visited a merchant who passed by earlier,” he said. “Didn’t buy anything, huh? I figured I’d get you this.”

  Gracie blinked. For a moment, she just stared at it.

  Kindness. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? A gift. A gesture.

  But something about it felt too exact—like a chess move that wasn’t meant to win, only to provoke.

  It wasn’t just thoughtful—it was... intimate.

  A beat too personal for the distance that should’ve been between them.

  Still, what was she supposed to say? To do? Refuse it and risk offending him?

  She took the fan in silence, nodding once.

  The sound of footsteps padded down the hallway—Stacie, wrapped in a towel, her hair still damp and clinging to her shoulders. She paused when she saw them.

  “Oh! Mister Cheng. How are you?”

  He turned to her briefly, offering a polite but distracted smile. “Well enough, thank you.”

  Stacie tried to keep the mood light. “Bit warm out, isn’t it? That time of year again.”

  Cheng He didn’t answer. His attention had already moved back to Gracie. Like a lantern casting light in just one direction.

  “Well,” he said, “tell me if anything’s missing. Anything at all.”

  “This place is wonderful,” Gracie said, trying to ease the awkwardness. “Honestly. How did you even get it?”

  Cheng He chuckled, a sound like creaking wood. “Oh, it was passed down to us. Imperial decree, actually. Bit of a legacy thing.”

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  Gracie blinked. Was that a joke? It didn’t sound like one. But the way he said it—offhand, like mentioning the weather—left no room for questions.

  “Legacy, huh?” Stacie said, voice light but wary. “Must’ve come with a few ghosts.”

  Cheng He smiled faintly. “All old houses do.”

  Then he looked at her, really looked. There was something behind his eyes, something quietly searching.

  She shifted slightly in the chair, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had gotten. The air felt heavier somehow.

  “Tell me,” he said, voice softer now, “do you have anyone waiting for you back home? Family? A sweetheart?”

  The question dropped like a stone in still water.

  Gracie hesitated. Not because she had a secret to guard, but because something about the way he asked it made her feel like she should.

  “Not… really,” she said carefully. “Just some friends. Why do you ask?”

  Cheng He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just curious. It’s good to know what keeps someone anchored. What they might miss.”

  In the doorway, Stacie’s posture shifted. Her easy stance grew stiffer.

  She’d been watching the conversation closely, and the unease coiled tighter in her chest. It wasn’t just the words—though they were odd enough. It was the atmosphere. The slow, deliberate way he directed everything toward Gracie. Like Stacie was an afterthought.

  Something was wrong. Her gut said so. That same quiet, unshakeable instinct that had warned her of storms before the first cloud had even darkened the sky.

  “We’ve... kind of talked about moving on soon,” she said suddenly, cutting through the moment. Her voice was cool, but clear. “Haven’t decided yet.”

  She didn’t look at Gracie when she said it—only at Cheng He. Watching his face like one might watch a match catch flame.

  For a second, something in Cheng He’s expression faltered. His jaw clenched. A flicker of something passed through him, fast and almost hidden.

  Then he smiled again—wider than before. A smile that stretched just a beat too long.

  “You should stay,” he said. “It’s no trouble. You’ll be well taken care of here. I’m watching over you.”

  The room stilled.

  There was no threat in his tone. But there was something else. Something that made the space between his words feel heavier than what he’d actually said.

  Cheng He looked past them for a moment, his eyes unfocused, like seeing something far away.

  “You know,” he murmured, “sometimes the ones who need help don’t know how to ask for it. I didn’t. Not then.”

  There was a pause. And then:

  “I let go of most things,” he added, softer still. “Even the ones that hurt. But there’s one wound I never could bring myself to forgive. Just one.”

  He looked at Gracie again.

  “And that’s enough.”

  Gracie parted her lips, unsure what to say—caught somewhere between gratitude and discomfort.

  But Stacie stepped forward instead. Just slightly. Just enough to draw a line.

  “We’ll choose for ourselves,” she said.

  Her voice wasn’t loud. But it didn’t have to be.

  For the first time, Cheng He’s composure cracked. It was subtle—a slight rise in his voice, like a ripple of heat beneath the surface. But it was there.

  Then he caught himself. Exhaled. Smoothed it over.

  “My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

  He nodded to them both, turned, and walked out—his fan trailing behind him like a shadow dissolving into twilight.

  The door closed with a soft click.

  The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was full.

  “What was that about?” Gracie whispered.

  Stacie tightened the towel around herself, her gaze still locked on the door. “I don’t know. But I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  Gracie ran her fingers along the edge of the fan, feeling every ridge.

  “He means well.”

  “Maybe,” Stacie murmured. “But maybe not.”

  ~

  Gracie ladled the last of the hot water into the wooden tub, watching as steam rose and curled through the air like breath from a sleeping dragon. The basin was deep and wide, dark from years of use, but it held the heat well. A bundle of dried chrysanthemum blossoms floated on the surface, their scent thick and calming.

  She tested the water with her fingertips, then stepped in carefully. The warmth wrapped around her limbs, climbing up her spine until it reached the knots in her shoulders.

  She let out a sigh—long and quiet, like it had been waiting all day to leave her body.

  The candle on the nearby stool flickered, its golden light dancing across the wooden walls. Everything else faded: the distant creak of the house, the whisper of wind through the rice paper screen. Only water. Only warmth. And the silence she tried not to listen to.

  The conversation from earlier threatened to rise again—Cheng He’s eyes, the strange weight of his words, the fan on her bedside table like a question folded tight.

  “What keeps you anchored?”

  She sank lower until her chin brushed the surface. Tried not to answer.

  Eventually, when the heat began to thin, she stepped out and wrapped herself in a robe that smelled faintly of lavender and wood smoke. She dried her hair with a woven cloth, its roughness grounding her more than she expected.

  In the sleeping room, Stacie was already curled on her mat, her breaths steady. The fan still rested where Gracie had left it—closed, quiet, like a secret keeping watch.

  She blew out the candles one by one, then slipped beneath the covers. Outside, the trees whispered against the windows.

  And the dark settled in.

  She dreamed of home.

  Not the home she left behind in a rush of decisions and silence, but the one from when she was small. The floorboards of the kitchen creaked the same way they always had. The windows still steamed up when her grandmother boiled jujube soup in the winter.

  Her parents sat at the table, just shadows at first. Her father humming, her mother peeling apples with long, practiced strokes. The skin fell in a single curl, red and shining.

  In the corner, her grandfather's old fan rested on its usual hook. Bamboo ribs, the paper faded but familiar—painted with a trail winding into the hills.

  She moved toward it, drawn by something she couldn’t name. When she reached for it, her fingers passed through the wood.

  Then came the shift.

  The kitchen dimmed. Her parents no longer sat at the table. A tea set replaced the apples. The fan now lay open across the table, its painted trail leading not to the hills—but to a house.

  This house.

  A figure stood in the doorway. Cheng He. Younger. His face not yet weathered by grief, but the weight in his eyes the same.

  And beside him, a woman stood in silence, her gaze steady but unreadable. Something about her felt known. Like a memory she wasn’t sure was hers.

  Neither spoke.

  But the fan between them told its own story.

  Gracie woke with a jolt.

  The room was still.

  But the fan on the table had fallen to the floor. Unfolded slightly, its edge just brushing the floorboards.

  She stared at it for a long time before pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

  And sleep didn’t come again. Not for a long, long time.