The night outside the Whisper Bowl was still, almost reverent.
Moonlight draped the rooftops in silver, and the narrow market street glimmered faintly with puddles from the evening rain. The lanterns above the doorway swayed, their soft light painting fleeting ripples across the wooden signboard where the golden characters — The Whisper Bowl — gleamed quietly in pride.
Inside, the restaurant was hushed. The laughter of guests had faded, the tables were cleaned, the scent of sesame and rice lingering faintly in the air. Only one room still glowed — the small chamber at the back where Lian An sat on the edge of the bed, drying her hair with a towel. Her borrowed robe was simple, its cotton collar loose around her neck.
For the first time in weeks, she felt calm. Away from court. Away from eyes that measured everything she said.
The door slid open.
