Back in Feng Ruyi's room, the two sisters were seated together, a comfortable silence hanging in the air. The room, softly lit by the glow of oil lamps, held the faint scent of jasmine, as a cool breeze whispered through the window. Feng Ruyi, lounging on her embroidered silk cushions, broke the stillness with a teasing tone.
"Qing Qing, do you really not want to marry the Crown Prince? His looks aren't that bad," she teased, her smile playful but laced with an undercurrent of curiosity. When she read the novel, she had been a staunch supporter of the pairing between Feng Qingqing and Tian Weilong. But now that things weren't unfolding as she expected, she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed, even confused.
"If his looks are so bad, why don't you marry him yourself?" Feng Qingqing shot back, her voice steady, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. She had no intention of marrying someone for the sake of fulfilling anyone else's expectations.
Feng Ruyi blinked in surprise. "Didn't—didn't you just hear him canceling our engagement and confessing his love for you? Why would I marry him?" she exclaimed, her face reddening with a mix of embarrassment and exasperation.
"If you won't marry him, then why should I?" Feng Qingqing's words were sharp, and her gaze met Ruyi's with a quiet defiance. She had no obligation to follow anyone's wishes, let alone marry a prince she had no feelings for.
Feng Ruyi opened her mouth, but no words came out. She had thought her sharp retorts would trip up her sister, but Qingqing was equally quick-witted. She sighed in defeat, leaning back into her cushions, a mischievous glint still in her eyes.
"Fine, I give up," she muttered under her breath, knowing she would never win against Qingqing's unwavering stance.
Meanwhile, Feng Qingqing, undeterred, picked up a delicate comb from the vanity and began running it through her long, black hair, her reflection caught in the antique mirror before her. She moved with such focus, her expression serene, as if the world outside had momentarily ceased to exist. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, parting the strands like a painter creating strokes on a canvas.
Feng Ruyi, watching her sister's calm movements with a mix of amusement and frustration, suddenly jumped up from her cushions and darted over to her. Her eyes fell on something—a deep scar—just below the younger girl's jawline. The mark, about two inches long, was faint but unmistakably old, a reminder of some untold story.
"What is that on your neck?" she asked, her voice laced with concern as she leaned in for a closer look.
Feng Qingqing paused in her movements, but only for a moment. She continued to gaze into the mirror, her fingers never stopping their rhythm. "Are you done looking?" she asked coolly, her tone casual but tinged with an unmistakable sadness.
Feng Ruyi ignored the question, her gaze still fixed on the scar. "How did you get it?" she asked, her voice softer now, as a knot of worry formed in her chest.
Feng Qingqing had gained fragments of the original owner's memories since her transmigration, but the details of her early childhood remained hazy and fragmented. The scar, though, was a memory that lingered, but every attempt to recall its origin left her with a sharp, throbbing pain in her head.
"I'm not so sure myself. I think it was on my sixth birthday. Someone... helped me," Feng Qingqing murmured, her voice trailing off. She hesitated before shaking her head, as if trying to dispel the fog that clouded her thoughts. "But... I can't remember much more. Every time I try, it's like my mind just—" she cut herself off, feeling the familiar pain building at the base of her skull.
"Who helped you?" Feng Ruyi pressed, her brow furrowing in concern, though she couldn't remember anything about that day herself.
Feng Qingqing turned her gaze toward her sister then, her eyes soft but distant. "I don't know. I think... you were there, too. Do you remember anything?" she asked, almost pleading.
Feng Ruyi shook her head slowly, an odd sense of unease settling over her. "I'm not the old Ruyi. How could I remember?" she said, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. Her mind churned, trying to recall the details, but they were as elusive as smoke. The more she thought about it, the more frustrated she became. She had been an avid reader of these kinds of stories, convinced she knew every plot twist, every secret. But now, it seemed like there were far more questions than answers.
Feng Qingqing smiled faintly, as if the weight of it all didn't bother her as much as it should have. "Right, I forgot," she said softly, her eyes never leaving the reflection in the mirror.
"Yeah, you 'forgot,'" Feng Ruyi muttered, rolling her eyes. "Thanks for asking to use my comb," she added sarcastically, crossing her arms. Feng Qingqing was clever, always keeping her cards close to her chest, and Feng Ruyi knew there was more to the story than she was letting on. But she also knew when to stop pushing. This time, though, she couldn't help but feel that there was more to Feng Qingqing's past than either of them realized.
In the Carriage
Outside the safety of Feng Ruyi's room, Tian Weilong sat in his carriage with the rhythmic creaking of the wheels and the soft rustling of the horses' hooves being the only sounds breaking the silence. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped over the wooden pillar of the carriage, his gaze lazily scanning the outside world. But beneath the casual façade, there was an underlying tension that even he couldn't completely mask.
The Crown Prince had been rejected—and yet, he looked as if nothing had changed. His face remained neutral, betraying no hint of emotion as the words of Feng Qingqing's refusal echoed in his mind. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that her feelings would align with his. But now, it seemed he was back where he started, his heart not as light as it appeared.
But it was his hands that betrayed him. Clutched tightly in his grip was a small, faded handkerchief, its fabric worn and soft from years of use. The pale pink cloth, embroidered with three small butterflies, was something Tian Weilong had kept for over a decade. It was a symbol of something far more personal, far more painful than anyone could know. The butterfly wings, crooked and uneven, had been sewn by a trembling hand—a hand that was now lost to time.
Tian Weilong's fingers tightened around the handkerchief, his knuckles white as he tried to tamp down the restless energy that surged within him. The handkerchief had once belonged to a little girl, someone who had long since faded from his life. But the memories—the fleeting moments they had shared—still haunted him. No one knew where he had gotten it, not even he himself, but it had been a silent companion through many sleepless nights.
For now, all he could do was hold onto it, as though it could somehow anchor him to a past he could never return to.