The crane sat beside Mei Lin's lampstand that night, small and silent like the promise it carried. She ran her fingers over its carved wings long after the candle had burned down, committing each delicate groove to memory. A soldier, busy with battles and bloodshed, had carved this — and given it to her.
She wanted to believe it meant something.
But belief was dangerous in her world.
---
For the next few days, the Commander visited often.
Never with flowers. Never with fancy words.
Just his presence — quiet, steady, commanding.
They spoke in moments, not hours. A shared glance at the garden, a brush of hands as she poured him tea, a few soft words about the moonlight or the scent of plum blossoms. To others, it might've seemed like nothing at all.
But to Mei Lin, who had known only performance and pretense, it was everything.
---
One afternoon, they sat in the back courtyard, where the trees rustled softly and time moved slower than the rest of the world.
"You fought in the northern border war?" she asked.
He nodded. "Two winters. Harsh. Lonely. But quiet."
"And now?"
He looked at her. "Now it's not quiet anymore."
Mei Lin didn't ask what he meant.
Sometimes silence spoke clearer than words ever could.
---
But not everyone in the tea house was blind.
Lan Rou, the new madam, noticed the change in him — how his gaze lingered too long on Mei Lin when he thought no one was watching. Her jealousy, once quiet, began to simmer.
She interrupted often. Always offering herself when the Commander came, insisting on sitting beside him, laughing too loudly, brushing against him when she refilled his cup.
He endured her presence with the same politeness he gave to diplomats and generals — formal, distant, cold.
And when Lan Rou was gone, his eyes always found Mei Lin again.
---
On the sixth evening, a rare storm rolled over the town.
Rain lashed against the wooden shutters, thunder rumbled in the hills, and the tea house was nearly empty. Mei Lin stood by the window, watching droplets race down the glass.
A knock came at her door.
It was him.
Soaked to the bone, his uniform clinging to him, dark hair dripping water onto the wooden floor.
"I was caught in the storm," he said simply.
Without a word, she pulled him inside and handed him a towel. Their hands touched. His fingers were cold. She didn't let go right away.
For a moment, they just looked at each other — storm outside, storm inside.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"I know."
But he stayed.
---
He didn't cross the line. Not physically. Not yet.
He sat by her lamp and dried his hair while she brewed tea in silence.
And when he left that night, he looked back once, under the lantern light, and said, "When I'm back again… I'll come to you first."
---
Then he was gone.
---
Days passed. Then a week.
No word. No letter. Nothing.
Mei Lin waited. At first with quiet hope. Then with silent dread.
Lan Rou, seeing her falter, seized the opportunity.
"Don't wait on him," she sneered one night as they passed in the hallway. "Men like him never return to girls like us."
Mei Lin said nothing. But the sting of those words cut deeper than she expected.
She kept her head down. She performed when asked. She smiled at guests. But behind her eyes, the light had dimmed again.
---
Then, just when she began to think it had all been a dream, she saw him again.
But not the way she wanted to.
---
It was market day.
Mei Lin was walking with one of the younger girls to buy thread for her embroidery when she heard the sound of boots on cobblestones — a sound she had come to know by heart.
She turned.
And there he was.
In uniform. Sharp as always.
But not alone.
A woman walked beside him — elegant, confident, laughing softly as she spoke. She wore an officer's jacket over her shoulders, her hair pinned high with silver combs. Her presence radiated command.
Mei Lin froze.
The Commander smiled at the woman.
He never smiled like that at her.
Her chest tightened. Her hands trembled.
The younger girl tugged her sleeve. "Isn't that—?"
"Let's go," Mei Lin said quickly, turning away.
---
She waited.
For days.
For a word. An explanation. Anything.
None came.
---
Then one afternoon, unable to bear it anymore, she walked to the edge of the military district — where officers often took their tea — and saw him again.
He was alone, sitting by the window of a quiet shop, flipping through a folded newspaper.
Mei Lin stepped inside, her steps light, her heartbeat loud.
He looked up.
Surprise flickered across his face.
"Mei Lin."
"I saw you," she said. Her voice didn't shake, but her heart did. "With her."
His expression shifted.
"She's my superior officer," he said. "And… my fiancée."
---
The silence that followed was louder than thunder.
Mei Lin stared at him, the words ringing in her ears like bells she couldn't silence.
"Fiancée," she repeated, as if tasting the syllables would make them less bitter.
"I didn't plan for this," he said. "It was arranged months ago. I didn't expect…"
"You didn't expect to fall for a girl from a tea house?" she asked quietly.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
---
She left without saying goodbye.
And that night, for the first time in a long while, she didn't wait by the window.
The crane sat still beside her candle — untouched.