If the laurel still thrived, it might have hastened my father’s recovery, as it had mine. But it was gone, disintegrating to nothingness after it had expended the last of its powers to restore me. I glanced through a window that overlooked the osmanthus forest, a void of sky where the laurel had once towered.

“Where is Liwei?” My mother had exercised great restraint to not ask before.

“In his home, as I am in mine.” I did not say more, my emotions raw.

“Was this your decision?” A dangerous note slid into my father’s voice.

“Yes,” I said hastily. “I wanted to come home. He is not at fault.”

“You are always welcome here.” My mother hesitated before adding, “Do you intend to go back? I thought you and Liwei—” Her voice trailed off as she exchanged an anxious look with my father.

“No, Liwei will ascend the throne. And I … will not,” I said flatly.

My mother said no more, wrapping her arms around me. I closed my eyes, feeling a little of the heaviness within me lessen. Oh, I was lucky to be here, fortunate beyond measure to have my parents, and our home restored. But I was hurting inside; I needed to heal. I had no idea how, but it was not by becoming the Celestial Empress, living a life that was not mine.

Settling back into my home came as easily to me as a fish darting through the water. It was just as I remembered … and yet not. Some nights I awoke in bed, fogged with slumber, sweat pouring down my face, a half-formed cry curled in my throat. I almost expected to hear Ping’er’s firm footsteps padding along the corridor. When a door creaked, I turned, my heart leaping at the impossible hope that it would be her—before plunging at the reality that she was gone. Yet there was comfort in knowing a part of her would always be here, interwoven with our memories.

There were good changes too. At last, I fulfilled my cherished dreams of walking beside my father in the osmanthus forest, the three of us having our meals together. We talked of mundane things: what we would cook next, the improvements to our house, what flowers we might plant—and it was music to my ears. I began training archery with my father. We set up targets in the forest, and he would correct my posture, the way I held my bow as I released my arrows. And if there were things I felt he could have done better, I kept them to myself as any dutiful daughter might—at least for now. Such moments were precious indeed, and though they did not quite fill the existing hole in my heart, it replenished it in other ways, yielding me a different kind of happiness to what had been lost.