Jing Xin knew something of Hui Yuan’s past — though she had been young at the time, she retained a few impressions.

Before entering the convent, Hui Yuan had been in love with the General. But their families stood in the way, and they were forced to part.

By the time the man rose to become General, he already had several children. Yet he had never forgotten Hui Yuan, and had gone to great lengths to try to bring her back to his side.

Hui Yuan, however, had let all worldly attachments go — or so Jing Xin had always believed. She had simply not anticipated that Hui Yuan would one day take her life with a length of rope.

“I was still young then. I truly didn’t understand why Master Hui Yuan would end her own life.” Jing Xin gradually steadied herself. “Looking back now — even if she had no wish to return to the world, that was no reason to hang herself. The General never forced her to do anything.”

“The General wanted to take her away, but Hui Yuan refused to see him every time. Even so, he never once pressed her against her will. From the moment Hui Yuan entered the convent to the day she died, the General never came face to face with her — which only shows he had no wish to override her choices.” Shi Ting said, “If that is so, why would Hui Yuan take her own life?”

Jing Xin fell silent at this. A thousand tangled threads stirred unresolved within her.

“Master Jing Xin, the killer is still hidden somewhere within Baiyu’an Convent. If we cannot find them quickly, there may be another victim. Surely you don’t want to see anyone else strung up in that waterfall.”

Jing Xin lowered her head. The fingers at her sides curled slowly into fists.

Though the abbess had often held back their wages, she had been kind-hearted and good to them in every other way. Jing Xin had harbored some resentment, but she had never once wished for her death.

And Master Hui Xiu had been so gentle, so compassionate…

“If we open the coffin, can we truly determine how Master Hui Yuan died?” Jing Xin’s resolve was beginning to waver.

“I promise you — we can.” Yan Qing crouched down beside her and softly patted her shoulder. “You loved Master Hui Yuan as a daughter loves a mother. Surely you want to know the true cause of her death.”

Jing Xin breathed out slowly. Though they valued the sanctity of a proper burial, if Hui Yuan had died an unjust death, how could she ever rest in peace? This grave was not her resting place — it was her binding.

She thought of Hui Yuan’s smile in life, of how she had sheltered and cared for her. A pang ran through her, and the resolve that had been forming within her hardened further.

“All right.” There was a new certainty in Jing Xin’s voice. “I’ll go back and get the tools. We must not let anyone else know.”

Opening a grave to examine a body was the most deeply taboo of acts. If Master Hui Qing were to learn of it, she would certainly refuse — so it had to be done quietly, in secret.

Jing Xin returned quickly with tools. The three of them worked together and began to dig open Hui Yuan’s grave.

Because of the recent rain, the soil was soft and came up easily. Before long, they could see the coffin below.

Hui Yuan had been buried more than a decade ago, and the coffin had long since rotted soft.

Once the earth around it had been cleared to either side, the full shape of the coffin came into view.

Shi Ting jumped down into the pit and tried pushing the coffin lid. The lid was a fitted type, not nailed shut — a firm push should move it. He hadn’t applied much force at all when the lid slid aside with unexpected ease.

Jing Xin tried to imagine what lay inside. She wasn’t sure she could bear to look.

“The coffin is empty.” Shi Ting and Yan Qing spoke the words at nearly the same moment.

At the words “empty coffin,” Jing Xin too looked over in astonishment. The coffin that Shi Ting had slid open contained only a few burial items — Buddhist implements and scraps of cloth long since rotted to rags — not a single bone.

“This can’t be.” Jing Xin went pale with shock. Fear forgotten, she scrambled down into the pit herself.

“It can’t be. It can’t be possible. I watched Master Hui Yuan be buried with my own eyes.”

Shi Ting looked at the empty coffin in the dim lantern light, sinking into thought.

“Are you absolutely certain the person buried was Hui Yuan?”

“Without question.” Jing Xin stared in bewilderment. “Not just me — everyone in this convent saw Master Hui Yuan laid to rest. Something like that cannot have been faked.”

Shi Ting closed the coffin and said quietly, “Let’s restore this to how it was.”

Jing Xin still could not bring herself to believe the grave was empty. Even after helping Shi Ting fill it back in, she remained in a state of profound shock. No matter how she tried to reason through it, she could not fathom how Hui Yuan’s grave had come to hold nothing.

Where had the body gone? Could it be that those nights of heavy rain had washed the grave open, and some wild animal had dragged the remains away?

To Jing Xin, that was the only explanation she could think of.

Once the three had returned to the convent, Yan Qing spent a little while comforting Jing Xin before sending her to rest.

After closing the door and sitting down together, Yan Qing finally asked, “Why would the coffin be empty? Could the rain really have broken open the grave and allowed some animal to carry off the remains?”

“If an animal had taken the body, then when the nuns found the grave washed open, the coffin lid would have had to be open. And if the lid was open, how could no one have noticed the body was gone?”

“That’s true.” The reply only deepened Yan Qing’s confusion. “Apart from Jing Xin, many people must have witnessed Hui Yuan’s burial. And yet a body simply vanished — it’s completely baffling. Who would have moved Hui Yuan’s remains?”

Yan Qing was still murmuring half to herself when she noticed Shi Ting had gone completely quiet. His gaze was fixed on the two sachets resting on the table, and his expression was grave, as though he were working through something in his mind.

She could tell that a clearer shape of reasoning had begun to form in him — though some knots had yet to be untied.

Yan Qing sat quietly and did not disturb him, leaning her chin on her hand and watching him with a soft, drifting gaze.

She loved to watch him when he was lost in thought like this. He seemed to radiate something in those moments — something that drew out all her admiration and affection.

“What are you staring at?”

A light tap on her forehead. Yan Qing let out a small exclamation and looked up with mild indignation. “You, obviously. What else would I be looking at? Would you prefer I stare at some other man?”

“Is there anyone else you have eyes for, besides me?”

“My, my — where does Director Shi get such remarkable confidence?”

Shi Ting smiled slightly, then leaned in close. With him came a familiar scent — warm and faint, hovering near her lips as he spoke, like something with the power to draw a person in against their will.

“I have at least that much confidence,” he said. And then he pressed his lips softly against hers.

Yan Qing touched her forehead lightly to his. “I love that confidence of yours.”

“Qing Qing — can a person come back from death?”

The sudden question gave Yan Qing pause. Then she answered with quiet seriousness: “Technically, it’s possible.”

Shi Ting narrowed his eyes and listened carefully.

“There is a state called apparent death — sometimes called suspended animation. In this condition, the body’s circulatory, respiratory, and neural functions are so severely suppressed that the vital signs become virtually undetectable by ordinary means. To outside appearances, the person seems to be dead.”

Yan Qing continued, sensing she had already guessed the direction of his thinking: “Apparent death is a result of oxygen deprivation to the brain. It can occur in cases of hanging, strangulation, or drowning.”

“Can someone in apparent death recover?”

“In theory, with resuscitation, survival is possible. Even without intervention, there are rare recorded cases of spontaneous recovery — but the probability is extremely low.” Yan Qing looked at him carefully. “You think Hui Yuan might still be alive?”

“Do you remember the music we heard that rainy night when Hui An was killed?” Shi Ting said. “The player was clearly very skilled — even with deliberate restraint, every note flowed with precision, as though the piece had been played many times over. I questioned everyone in Baiyu’an, and not a single person plays the guqin — except Hui Yuan. They all insisted the music came from some unseen presence, but you and I both know there are no such things as ghosts. Whoever was playing was a living person.”

“When I was at the Qian family home, I heard Qian Lan play this piece. The way she played it that evening bore a striking similarity to what we heard that night.”

“Beyond that, there is another detail worth questioning. That night, we knew the player was in the room — and yet they vanished right before our eyes, as though they had ceased to exist. But they didn’t vanish. They were in that courtyard the entire time, hidden somewhere we simply couldn’t find.”

“You think the courtyard has a hidden mechanism or passageway?”

“That passage may very well connect directly to the cave behind the waterfall.”

Yan Qing felt a chill run through her at the thought. “If your reasoning is correct, then the person who knows that courtyard so intimately — who knows about the hidden passage — would most likely be the courtyard’s original occupant. Do you think Jing Xin knows?”

Shi Ting shook his head slowly. “From the look of her — she doesn’t seem to.”

“If not Jing Xin, then it can only be Hui Yuan herself.” The possibility struck even Yan Qing as difficult to believe. Could someone who had been dead for more than a decade truly come back to life?

“If Hui Yuan truly is alive, and all of this is her doing — what is her purpose? If she wanted to kill Hui Xiu and Hui An, why wait so many years?”

“Everything remains conjecture. The first thing we need to do is find that hidden passage. If it truly exists, we should find exactly who we’re looking for inside.”

The next morning, Baiyu’an Convent was much as it always was. Everyone rose early, and the rhythms of daily preparation unfolded in their usual orderly fashion.

After breakfast, Yan Qing and Shi Ting strolled through the convent grounds. When they came to a particularly grand and ornate shrine hall, Shi Ting stopped a passing nun.

“When was this built?”

The nun replied: “It was built thirteen years ago. It is the most costly structure in all of Baiyu’an, and is only used for grand ceremonial rites.”

The hall was richly appointed and imposing in scale — it stood out among all the other structures of the convent like a crane among common birds.

As the nun explained, this hall — called Zhuangguang Shrine — was the landmark building of Baiyu’an, and the reason the convent had become so widely known.

Shi Ting and Yan Qing circled the hall once. It was, indeed, extraordinary.

“This hall was built thirteen years ago,” Shi Ting said, his gaze growing distant and intent. “And Hui Yuan also died thirteen years ago. Could that be a coincidence?”