Mo Ying finally put his brush down.
"Why exactly are you here, Mo An?" he asked, his voice calm but sharp. "Do you need sothing? And what is with the tray in your hands?"
He looked at her, then at the tray again. There was no food, no tea, nothing that made sense. Questions piled up in his mind, but none had answers yet.
Mo An only smiled.
She did not reply right away. Instead, she walked closer, her steps slow and light, until she stood in front of his desk. Then she gently placed the tray down between them.
Mo Ying’s eyes followed her movents.
"What are you playing at?" he asked.
Mo An lifted the cloth covering the tray.
"Brother," she said softly, her smile fading just a little, "this is sothing I have been aning to show you since you returned."
Mo Ying’s gaze dropped.
Inside the tray was a small bundle of letters and a folded piece of cloth. The cloth was old, slightly worn at the edges, but clean. The letters beneath it were neatly tied together with a thin string.
His expression changed.
"What is this?" he asked quietly.
Mo An t his eyes. "Do you really not recognize it?"
Mo Ying stared at the cloth for a long mont. Slowly, his fingers reached out and touched it. His hand paused midair, then clenched slightly.
"...Where did you get this?"
Mo An exhaled softly. "I found it a long ti ago. I didn’t think much of it then. But after what happened recently... after Lin Xu entered our lives..." She paused. "I realized it might matter."
Mo Ying’s eyes darkened at the sound of that na.
Mo An watched him closely.
"These letters," she said quietly, "were written by San Na."
Mo Ying’s fingers stopped.
"And this cloth," she continued, her voice lowering, "belongs to Mo Sheng. Your child."
The words landed heavily.
Mo Ying said nothing. He reached for the bundle of letters, his movents slow, careful. As he untied the string, Mo An began to speak again.
"She used to write to you often," Mo An said. "Season after season. Every ti the weather changed, there was another letter."
Mo Ying unfolded the first one.
The writing was neat and gentile.
"She wrote during the two years you were at war," Mo An went on. "But she never sent a single one."
Mo Ying turned the page.
Then another.
His eyes moved quickly now, scanning lines filled with quiet worries, small daily events, words ant only for him.
Mo An’s voice stayed steady. "I used to wonder why she didn’t send them. Why write so much and keep it all hidden?"
Mo Ying’s hand tightened around the paper.
"She didn’t send them," Mo An said softly, "because she was sure the man she was writing to was fighting not just for the people... but for another woman."
Mo Ying’s breathing slowed.
"She believed," Mo An continued, "that while she waited, her husband’s heart was already sowhere else. That the man she was married to longed to be in another woman’s arms."
"That’s enough," Mo Ying said suddenly.
He looked up. "Why are you telling all this?"
Mo An t his eyes without flinching. Then she pointed to the cloth on the tray.
"She made that herself," Mo An said. "Stitch by stitch. For your son."
Mo Ying stared at the small garnt.
"San Na was not a bad person," Mo An said quietly. "Yes, she made mistakes. Yes, she did many things wrong. But you cannot place all the bla on her."
She took a slow breath.
"Just like you, she was forced into that marriage."
Mo Ying’s fingers loosened.
"She chose to give it a chance," Mo An said. "She chose to love her husband. But her husband could not love her back."
Her voice wavered slightly, but she kept going.
"Instead, he chased after another woman."
Mo Ying said nothing.
He sat there, silent, the letters spread before him, the cloth resting untouched on the tray. For once, he had no words.
Mo An watched him for a long mont, then spoke again, softer now.
"I once heard a saying," she said. "It’s very simple."
She looked at her brother.
"It’s not about marrying the one you love..." she said gently,
"but learning to love the one you marry."
The study fell into deep silence.
The study stayed silent.
Mo Ying did not speak.
He sat there, staring at the letters spread before him, his fingers resting lightly on the worn cloth. His face showed nothing, yet his chest felt heavy, as if sothing long buried had been forced open.
Mo An watched him for a mont longer.
Then she straightened her back.
Her gentleness faded, replaced by calm firmness.
She turned toward the door and raised her voice. "Co in."
At once, the door opened.
Several maids entered, each carrying a tray filled with warm dishes. The sll of food quickly filled the study, sharp and real, cutting through the heavy air.
The maids placed the trays down neatly, one after another.
Mo Ying did not look up.
Mo An faced him again.
"You have gone hours without eating," she said. "As your sister and as soone who still respects this household I will not allow that."
Her voice hardened slightly.
"Alsobecause, soone had also gone hours without eating as well."
Mo Ying’s fingers twitched.
"You must eat," Mo An said firmly. "Because the mother of your child haven’t eaten as well."
That finally made him blink.
She did not give him ti to respond.
With that, Mo An turned around and walked out of the study, her steps steady. The door closed behind her.
The maids remained, lowering their heads as they finished setting the food on the small dining table placed at the side of the large study.
Mo Ying stayed seated for a long mont.
Then slowly, he stood up.
He left the desk and walked toward the table. His movents were quiet, heavy. He did not sit right away. Instead, he stopped and looked back at the desk at the letters, still open, still waiting.
After a pause, he spoke.
"Go," he said to the maids. "Bring Young Miss here."
The maids froze for a split second.
"...Young Miss San Na?" one of them asked carefully.
"Yes," Mo Ying replied.
They bowed quickly. "At once."
The maids hurried out of the room.
Mo Ying remained standing.
His eyes drifted back to the letters.
He did not touch them again.
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