I was the youngest of his students. While the others mastered medicine, sword, music, or scripture, I wandered aimlessly among the silent petals and whispering winds. He never taught me anything. Not a single lesson. And when I tried to seek his gaze, it was always met with the coldness of stars.
I lived like a phantom flower-barely blooming, already falling. Trapped between knowing and forgetting, between devotion and defiance, I longed to reclaim the pieces of myself scattered before I ever arrived.
After many years, I saw Master again. He hadn't changed-immaculate white robes, midnight-soft hair flowing like moonlight, and a face so ethereal it felt sacrilegious to look at. In that moment, I remembered why I could never hate him. And why I could never become him.
This is the story of the quiet disciple no one noticed. Of the valley that preserves souls but silences voices. Of a girl who dared to bloom even when no one was watching.
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