Chapter 20
The shop was eerily silent when Yun-si pushed the door open. The air hung stale, thick with the ghost of incense long burned out.
Old Wang stood in his usual spot behind the counter, but something was wrong. The brazier sat cold. The shelves—once overflowing with scrolls and stitched volumes—now held gaps like missing teeth. His faded robes looked crumpled, and she could see where the cuffs frayed.
Yun-si clutched the manuscript to her chest. “Old Wang?”
He didn’t look up from the ledger. “Mistress Recluse.”
She stepped closer. The countertop, usually neatly arranged with his inkstone, brushes and abacus, was dull with dust. “The shop...?”
“Closing.” He coughed—a raspy cough like dry brush on rice paper.
“Physician says my health needs rest. And Golden House—” Old Wang laughed bitterly.
“They’ve been cutting deals with the book printers and distributors to go exclusive.
That means no books to sell for smaller bookshops like Autumn Leaf. ”
Yun-si’s fingers tightened around the manuscript. Through the window, she could see Golden House Books across the street. Moonlit Brush’s latest volume sat prominently in their front window, the colored covers catching every scrap of sunlight.
Old Wang finally met her eyes. “I’m sorry, child.” The familiar spark in his eyes had dimmed to something resembling resignation.
The words landed like a blade between her ribs. He knew. Knew what this meant for her—no more anonymous submissions, no more slipping manuscripts into his hands like secrets. No more Recluse in Clouds.
She swallowed. “When?”
“End of the month.” He tapped the ledger. “Just finishing the accounts.”
Yun-si set the manuscript on the counter. Thunder Blade’s Revenge, the revised version, the one she’d stayed up night after night to finish.
Old Wang didn’t reach for it. “Golden House will take you. With your talent—”
“I don’t want them.” The words slipped out, sharper than she meant.
He sighed. “Then burn it.”
She flinched.
“Not literally,” he said. “But if you can’t publish, what’s the point? Better to let it go than let them have it.” Old Wang’s voice softened. “Or find another shop. But they’re all... watching now.”
A draft whispered through the cracks in the walls. Somewhere outside, the bell above Golden House’s doors jingled, too cheerful.
Yun-si tucked the manuscript under her arm. “I’ll be back.”
Old Wang didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if the weight of the news had settled into his bones. The familiar shuffle of his steps was slower now, each movement deliberate, like he was testing his knees before trusting it with his weight.
Yun-si watched as his gnarled fingers, the ones that had once flipped through her manuscripts with such care, trembled just a little as he straightened the few volumes of poetry on the shelves.
The sight of it twisted something in her chest. Old Wang had seemed like forever, as permanent as the bookshop that was now closing.
Seeing him like this made the loss of her own secret world feel even sharper.
The streets of Shangjing blurred past as she walked home, her steps slow, dragging through the slush of fallen petals.
She clutched Thunder Blade’s Revenge against her chest tightly, as if to assure herself it’s still there.
Shangjing’s bustling streets felt hollow—the vendors’ cries muffled, the clatter of carriages like stones dropped into deep water.
She moved through it all, a ghost in pale pink silk.
In Peach Blossom Courtyard, she closed her chamber door and leaned against it. Her fingers traced the title on the book—Thunder Blade’s Revenge. Old Wang’s raspy voice echoed: Better to let it go than let them have it.
She stared at the neat columns of characters.
This wasn’t just paper and ink. It was every hushed midnight hour spent hunched over her desk, the thrill of knowing her stories were being read by many.
Old Wang had been the first to take her seriously.
He’d looked at her first finished story and said, “Fix the pacing, tighten the story. But the voice? That’s something special. ”
A dry sob caught in her throat. Golden House Books glittered like gilded chains.
She had heard of them—they demanded exclusivity, once a story entered their halls it could no longer be carried elsewhere.
They spoke of expanding the literary world, yet the small street bookshops were already beginning to empty, their shelves thinning as more and more titles were drawn into Golden House’s vast, quiet monopoly.
She buried her head into the manuscript. Old Wang was retiring. The shop—that dim, incense-scented sanctuary where her stories lived—was vanishing. And with it, would Recluse in Clouds disappear too?