The door of Meridian Pavilion clicked shut behind Lian Hua, and the twilight dimmed further—leaving only the glow of a single oil lamp, its flame guttering over jars of silk thread. Lin Wan's silver prosthetic hand curled around the bamboo needle on her worktable; the metal digits chilled faster than usual, as if the shadow lingering outside had leached the warmth from the air.
A second later, the door pushed open again.
It was him: Shen Yan. His coat was made of a fabric that shimmered like frost on winter branches, and the cuffs were stitched with threads that didn't just glint—they hummed, a faint, dissonant note that clashed with the soft hum of Lin Wan's memory threads. He stepped inside, and the scent of cold pine and burnt paper wrapped around the room, sharp enough to cut through the jasmine and ink lingering from Lian Hua's visit.
Lin Wan didn't look up. She twisted a strand of ash-gray debt silk around her needle, her tone flat: "This pavilion only trades in memories people want back. You don't look like someone who's lost a joy worth exchanging."
Shen Yan leaned against the doorframe, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. His eyes, dark as undyed silk, fixed on her prosthetic hand. "I'm not here to trade. I'm here about the thread you used for Lian Hua's memory—the crimson silk that binds regret. It's forbidden."
Lin Wan's needle stilled. Forbidden. The word hung in the air, heavy as a lead weight. The memory trades she ran were unspoken, but "forbidden" implied something bigger—something tied to the fire that took her hand, the memory she couldn't get back.
"Forbidden by who?" she asked, lifting her head. The oil lamp's light caught the edge of his coat, and she saw it: the threads on his cuffs weren't just decorative. They were stitched in the pattern of a "thread-eater"—a design her mother once warned her about: a pattern that could unravel memories, not mend them.
"By the ones who made the rules of memory embroidery," Shen Yan said. He pulled a small, tattered piece of silk from his pocket and tossed it onto her worktable. It was black, charred at the edges, and stitched with a fragment of the same thread-eater pattern. "This was found in the ruins of your family's studio. The fire wasn't an accident."
Lin Wan's chest tightened. She reached for the silk fragment, but Shen Yan's hand snapped out, catching her wrist before her prosthetic could touch it. His fingers were cold, and she felt the hum of his coat's threads through his skin.
"Touch that, and you'll lose the last memory of your father's flute," he said. His voice was quiet, but there was no warmth in it—only a sharp, clinical warning. "The thread-eater pattern feeds on the memories of anyone who touches it. Your mother knew that. She was trying to destroy it when the fire started."
The words landed like a punch. Lin Wan had always thought the fire was a mistake—a lantern knocked over by a careless apprentice. But Shen Yan's eyes held no lie. She pulled her wrist away, her prosthetic hand trembling slightly.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.
"Because the people who sent the thread-eater pattern are looking for you," Shen Yan said. He pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, his coat brushing the edge of the worktable. "They want the crimson silk. They want to use memory embroidery to control people—not mend them. And you're the only one left who can make the forbidden threads."
Before Lin Wan could reply, a soft knock sounded at the door. It was different from Lian Hua's desperate rap—light, deliberate, the tap of a finger on wood. Shen Yan stepped back, melting into the shadow beside the window, and Lin Wan called out, "Come in."
A man in a tailored wool suit stepped in, his shoes polished to a shine, a leather briefcase in his hand. His face was pale, his eyes ringed with dark circles, and he held a small, folded piece of silk in his fingers.
"I'm here about a memory," he said. His voice was tight, as if he was forcing the words out. "My daughter's first birthday. I… I can't remember it. She died last month, and it's the only happy memory I have of her."
Lin Wan glanced at Shen Yan's shadow, then back at the man. The silk in his hand was baby blue, stitched with a tiny, unfinished star—his daughter's favorite shape, no doubt.
"The cost is your happiest memory from before she was born," Lin Wan said, her tone steady, even as her chest ached. "A joy for a joy."
The man hesitated, then nodded. "I'll pay it. It's… it's a memory of my wedding day. I don't need it anymore."
Lin Wan picked up her bamboo needle, but Shen Yan's voice whispered from the shadow: "Don't use the crimson silk. They're watching."
She froze. The man's eyes flicked to the shadow, then back to her. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing," Lin Wan said. She set aside the crimson silk and picked up a strand of pearl iridescent silk—nostalgia, not regret. "This will work."
As she pricked the man's finger, letting a drop of blood seep into the baby blue silk, she felt Shen Yan's eyes on her. The thread-eater fragment on the table hummed softly, and for a second, she thought she heard her mother's voice: Be careful who you trust with the threads.
When the stitch was done, the man touched the silk, and tears streamed down his face. "I see her," he whispered. "She's blowing out the candles."
He left, clutching the silk to his chest. Shen Yan stepped out of the shadow, his coat's threads humming louder.
"You used the wrong silk," he said.
"Regret would have broken him," Lin Wan said. She folded the thread-eater fragment and tucked it into a jar of ash-gray silk, where its hum faded. "What do you want from me, Shen Yan?"
He leaned forward, his voice low: "I want you to help me stop them. And I want you to let me fix the memory you traded—your mother teaching you to tie a silk knot."
Lin Wan stared at him. The offer hung in the air, bright as the oil lamp's flame. For three years, she'd thought that memory was gone forever. But Shen Yan's eyes held a promise—one that could either mend her, or unravel everything she had left.