The maid's name was Jun Niang.
I knew it now though her file listed her as a linen supervisor in the Empress's herbal wing.
She passed me twice a week in the west corridor near the washing basins. Always alone. Always silent.
And always with those long gloves that never slipped, even in summer.
I didn't follow her. That would be foolish. I just made sure I was nearby when the linen cart from the Empress's wing arrived early.
"Short on hand towels again," one servant muttered.
Jun Niang walked past the carts, nodded at the boy unpacking them and paused.
Just for a moment.
Then she turned sharply.
"Don't touch that," she snapped, pointing to a small folded cloth packet tucked beneath the rest. "Deliver that straight to the physician."
I glimpsed the corner as she moved it.
A faint symbol inked onto the silk:
HL-017.
She saw me watching. Just for half a second.
And for the first time, I saw her hesitate.
A flicker of recognition. Of memory. Of warning.
But she said nothing.
She picked up the packet, turned, and disappeared into the Empress's wing.
Back in my quarters, I sat with the image of her gloves burned into my mind.
They weren't just hiding old burns.
They were hiding who she used to be.
They were hiding the fact that not all of us forgot.
Some of us just learned how to live with silence.