The door had been closed for nearly an hour, but the name still hadn't left the room.
Shen Xifan.
Her real name.
It lingered — not because Xu Songzhuo repeated it, or because she did. It stayed the way the scent of osmanthus tea stayed after the cup was empty, or the way a chisel's groove in jade remained even after it was polished smooth.
She sat in the corner of the studio, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her carving tools were untouched on the workbench. She wasn't hiding. Not exactly. She just hadn't figured out how to move yet.
Xu hadn't said much.
After the man left, after that single line — I already knew — he'd returned to the quiet rhythm of the studio as if nothing had shattered. He didn't ask her to explain. Didn't prod her for history. He made space — and that, more than anything, had kept her from leaving.
He worked silently now, the soft tap of his chisel the only sound in the room. The afternoon light had dimmed slightly, clouds pulling across the sun like a thin sheet. Outside, the town moved at its usual pace: slow, methodical, indifferent.
Inside, time stood still.
Xifan finally unfolded her legs.
The cold from the floor had begun to seep into her bones, but she hadn't noticed until her knees ached. She rose carefully and approached the workbench.
He didn't look up.
But he said, "You can still carve, if you want."
She didn't answer.
Just took the empty cloth beside him and laid her tools out slowly, one by one, like she was putting her name back together.
The stone she'd left unfinished the day before was still there — small, rounded, partially smoothed on one side. It wasn't a meaningful piece. Just a practice curve. But today, it felt heavier in her hand.
Xu passed her a finer chisel without speaking.
She took it.
They worked side by side again — quietly, rhythmically.
Tap. Tap. Silence.
She let the silence stretch.
But this time, it wasn't comfortable.
It was charged.
So when she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than usual.
"You didn't ask what I did."
He paused. Just slightly.
Then resumed carving. "I don't need to."
She glanced at him. "Most people do."
"I'm not most people."
She gave a small, tired smile. "You really aren't."
He glanced at her then. Just once. A flicker of something unspoken moved between them — not curiosity. Not pity.
Just presence.
She went back to carving.
But her hands weren't steady.
Later, when her blade slipped and nicked the edge of the jade, she startled — not at the damage, but at the sharp sound it made. It cracked slightly, a clean diagonal line across the top.
She gasped.
Xu reached for her hand instantly.
But she was already pulling back, frustrated. "I ruined it."
He took the piece from her gently, turned it over in his fingers, examined the fracture.
Then he said, "No. You just gave it a story."
She looked up, blinking.
He set the piece down and ran a finger along the crack. "We'll fill this with lacquer and gold later. It'll hold."
"Kintsugi?" she asked softly.
He nodded.
"Do you do that often?"
"Only when something's worth keeping."
The silence that followed was different now.
Full.
She sat back, letting the weight of his words settle into her chest.
He hadn't said you're worth keeping.
But he didn't have to.
Outside, the rain returned.
Soft at first. Just a whisper on the roof tiles.
Inside, the air cooled.
She stood slowly, walked toward the window. Her reflection wavered slightly in the glass — half obscured by steam, half faded by light. It didn't look like the woman from headlines. Or from film. Or from scandal.
Just… a woman. Tired. But still here.
She turned back toward him.
His head was bent over the workbench again, sleeves dusted in powder, lashes shadowing his cheek. The light caught the curve of his wrist as he carved — slow, deliberate, beautiful.
"Xu Songzhuo," she said softly.
He looked up.
"What would you do," she asked, "if the world remembered the worst thing about you first?"
He met her eyes.
And for a long moment, said nothing.
Then, very quietly: "I'd carve something honest enough to make them forget."
The rain lingered through the late afternoon, turning the studio air damp and fragrant. The windows fogged faintly at the edges. The floor creaked underfoot as Shen Xifan moved across it, carrying two mugs of tea in both hands.
Xu Songzhuo took one silently. Their fingers touched briefly — not by accident this time, but without apology.
"Still jasmine?" he asked.
She nodded. "I didn't want to change it."
He didn't say anything, but held the mug for a moment longer than necessary before setting it aside.
They carved in silence again, but it was no longer passive. Their stillness now felt like a kind of conversation — every breath an answer, every pause a question neither of them needed to phrase aloud.
"Would you teach me something harder?" she asked eventually.
Xu looked up, thoughtful.
"What you've done so far has been about shape," he said. "Edges. Basic balance. But jade carving isn't just reduction. It's trust."
"Trust in what?"
"In the material. In the blade. In yourself."
She straightened slightly. "I want to try."
He paused, then turned toward a drawer behind him.
When he returned, he carried a thinner, curved chisel and a narrow sheet of waxed cloth with a glimmering, translucent jade shard — not polished, but naturally veined.
"This is river jade," he said, placing it in her palm. "Delicate. Impure. It fractures more easily. But if it holds, it shows light like nothing else."
Her fingers curled around the stone slowly. "Like people."
He met her gaze.
"Yes," he said simply. "Like people."
He showed her how to hold the blade differently this time — not between her fingers, but between thumb and the flat of her palm, angled inward.
"You have to carve with the breath," he said. "Inhale before the first cut. Exhale into the motion."
She blinked. "That sounds like meditation."
"It is."
He stepped closer — closer than he had before — and rested his hand lightly over hers to guide the angle. His hand was warm, dusted faintly with powder. He didn't press down. Just guided.
"Here," he murmured. "Follow the grain."
Her breath hitched.
She wasn't sure if it was the pressure in her chest, or the weight of his hand, or the way his voice sounded when it was this close to her skin.
But she moved. Carefully. Gently.
The blade kissed the jade. Not a crack. Not a scratch. Just the faintest shift.
He let go.
"You listened," he said.
She smiled. "You're good at teaching."
He didn't answer.
But the way he looked at her — steady, unguarded — told her he'd heard more than just her words.
They carved until the light turned blue.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the stone path beyond the studio was still wet, glistening in streaks of gold from the lanterns overhead.
Water Moon Town had entered its quietest hour.
She stood by the window, hands wrapped loosely around her tea, watching the drizzle slip from the curved roof tiles across the lane.
Xu approached from behind, setting down a folded towel on the nearby bench.
"Tomorrow," he said, "the light will be good. If you want to try in the courtyard."
"Carving outside?"
He nodded. "Some jade only speaks in daylight."
She turned slightly to look at him. "You make it sound like it's alive."
"Isn't everything?"
She smiled — tired, but real. "Sometimes I think you're the only person I've ever met who could say something like that and mean it."
His gaze didn't waver. "I mean everything I say."
That made her chest tighten.
She looked away first.
There was a pause. Then he added, "You should be careful, though."
She turned back. "Why?"
"Because I've never had a student who made me forget I was teaching."
The silence between them snapped tight.
Not in discomfort.
In recognition.
She set her cup down slowly and exhaled.
Not because she didn't want to answer — but because there was too much in the space between what had been said and what hadn't.
Outside, the temple bell rang once. Just once.
She looked toward it instinctively.
When she turned back, Xu was still looking at her — not through her, not at her past.
Just her.
And she realized, suddenly, that she wasn't afraid of being seen anymore.
It began with a whisper.
Not in the town. Not in a crowd. But on her phone — that slim, glass rectangle she rarely checked anymore, buried in the bottom drawer of her desk beneath receipts and a dried plum blossom she couldn't bring herself to throw away.
She powered it on late that night.
She didn't know why.
Maybe it was the way Xu Songzhuo had looked at her. Maybe it was the way the rain had felt against her skin when she left the studio. Or maybe it was the way the tea still tasted faintly of osmanthus, even after hours had passed.
The screen lit up. A series of updates blinked to life.
Five unread texts. A missed call. Two emails. One from her old manager.
But what caught her eye was the notification from a gossip forum buried under her alias tag: "Is it her? Actress spotted in southern water town."
Attached was a blurry photo — someone walking near the canal, face half-turned away, carrying a thermos.
Her thermos.
Her coat.
Her silhouette.
The thread had dozens of comments already. Some speculative, others defensive. No one had confirmed her name, but they didn't need to. The guesses were close enough. The curiosity had already been lit.
Her heart didn't race.
Not in panic.
But in sorrow.
Like grief remembering how to stand up again.
She turned the phone off.
Placed it face-down on the table.
Then she sat.
Not to cry.
Just to be still.
Outside, the moon was sharp. Mist clung to the edges of rooftops. Somewhere, a dog barked once — a far-off sound, almost unreal.
She pressed her fingers to her pulse.
It was steady.
Not calm.
But steady.
The next morning, she left early again — not out of habit, but intent.
She walked to the market, uncovered.
No sunglasses. No scarf pulled to her chin. No hat shading her face.
She bought scallions from the woman by the river and rice flour from the vendor with the broad hat. She smiled at a child who stared at her too long and nodded politely at a man sweeping his doorstep.
No one stopped her.
No one said her name.
But she could feel it — a flicker behind a window, the hush that came just one second too late.
The whispering had reached Water Moon Town.
She was no longer invisible.
But she kept walking.
When she arrived at Xu Jade Studio, he was already sweeping the stone steps. His sleeves were rolled, hair half-tied, the wooden broom soft against the damp moss.
He looked up as she approached.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
She paused.
Then added, "They're starting to find me."
He didn't react visibly. But his hand on the broom slowed.
She continued. "There's a photo. A thread. No confirmation yet, but… it's only a matter of time."
A pause.
Then: "Do you want to leave?"
"No," she said, without hesitation.
Another pause. Then he nodded once.
"Then I'll be here."
They didn't carve that morning.
Instead, she sat in the open-air section of the studio, legs folded beneath her, sketchbook on her lap.
She wasn't drawing Xu this time.
She was drawing herself.
Not how she looked now.
Not how she'd looked on posters or in close-up shots for brand campaigns.
But the version of herself she remembered — mid-laugh, pencil smudges on her hand, a chipped front tooth that had been fixed before her debut. The girl who'd loved rain, and dragon fruit, and the moment just before a scene started.
When she finished, she looked at the sketch for a long time.
Then — deliberately — she signed it.
Not "Lin Mei."
Not with a symbol.
But with her real name: Shen Xifan.
And beneath it, the date.
She tore the page out gently, stood, and crossed to the small corkboard in the entryway where local artists pinned commissions or gift pieces.
Without ceremony, she pinned it in the center.
It faced the door.
Let them look.
She had nothing left to erase.
Xu Songzhuo didn't say anything when he saw the sketch.
He'd been in the back, sorting stones by tone — soft celadon, pale cloud green, a darker piece with a fracture line he'd been meaning to test. He returned to the front only after the rain stopped, drying his hands on a linen cloth as he moved through the doorframe.
The drawing was already pinned.
He recognized her signature instantly. Not from gossip sites, not from the headlines — but from memory. He'd seen it once, scribbled across a thank-you note at the end of a limited-run indie film years ago. Back when she'd been considered "art-house," and no one expected her to become the name.
Now that name was quietly pinned to his wall — in pencil, on grainy sketch paper — not seeking applause, just taking up space.
He said nothing.
But he stood there for a long time.
Watching.
When she came back into the room — hands slightly smudged, braid loose over one shoulder — she saw him standing there.
She froze briefly.
Then squared her shoulders, eyes steady.
"I didn't do it for them," she said.
"I know," he replied.
She waited.
Then added, "I think I needed to remind myself that I still exist. Not just as a secret. Not just as someone running."
He didn't answer at first.
Instead, he walked to the tea station, poured two cups. Quiet hands. Familiar rhythm. The kind of silence that said: I'm still here. I saw it. I'm not leaving.
He handed her a cup.
She took it.
Their fingers brushed again. It was almost a ritual now.
But this time, he didn't pull away.
He didn't move at all.
She looked up at him, eyes softer than they had been in weeks. "You're not afraid they'll come here?"
He tilted his head. "They might."
"And?"
"And I've worked with sharper blades than gossip."
She gave a small breath of a laugh. "That's not reassuring."
"It's not meant to be," he said. "It's meant to be true."
She took a slow sip of her tea, letting the warmth fill her chest.
"I thought I had to be someone else to be safe," she said. "That disappearing would protect the people around me."
He said nothing.
So she finished, "But you never asked me to hide."
"No," he agreed, quietly. "Because I don't need you to be anyone but who you are when you're carving."
She stared at him.
Then whispered, "What if that's the only part of me that still feels real?"
He didn't blink.
"Then let's start from there."
They sat together after that — not carving, not sketching, not talking much.
Just sitting.
Shoulders almost touching, mugs warm between their hands.
And when a breeze swept through the studio and rustled the pinned sketch behind them, they didn't look up.
They didn't need to.
Because something had been claimed.
Not loudly.
Not publicly.
But between them — in the quiet, in the shared tea, in the stillness that no longer demanded explanation.
Outside, the sky cleared.
The rooftops of Water Moon Town gleamed faintly under the late afternoon sun, and the plum blossoms in the courtyard next door opened just wide enough to catch the wind.
And behind the jade studio door, beneath the carved wood sign and the scent of old stone and dust and warmth —
Two people remained.
Still.
But not hiding.