From what Ruoshui remembered, she’d been rescued after the great flood more than half a year ago — washed ashore, separated from whoever she’d been with. That fit the theory: the flood started from Ruo Shui (the river), and people fled to the riverbank.

　　Standing at the endless water, a cold fear hit her. Blurred images flashed in her mind but never quite resolved. Her head throbbed; she crouched and gripped it with both hands, trying to force a memory into focus.

　　“Ruoshuī… Ruoshuī…” Feng Xinzi called anxiously.

　　When she kept suffering, Feng Xinzi used golden needles on acupuncture points and guided her into a fitful sleep.

　　At Yunfu Town’s inn, she tossed and moaned in sleep, face tightened in pain, whispering, “Don’t… don’t… don’t leave me.”

　　“Ruoshuī—” Feng Xinzi tried to wake her, but the nightmare clung to her. Sweat dotted her brow. Feng Xinzi wiped at her forehead; she suddenly grabbed his wrist and held on like it steadied her. The sight tugged at his heart — it felt familiar, as if he’d seen such fear before.

　　When she finally woke she was breathless and exhausted, with no clear memory of the dream — only the choking terror and helplessness remained. Sleeping was not restoration for her; it was war.

　　“You’re awake.” Feng Xinzi exhaled. He glanced at his wrist where she had gripped him — the mark showed how hard she’d held on. “You’re stronger than you look.”

　　Ruoshuī rubbed her temples. “Where are we?”

　　“Yunfu Town — a small place downstream from Ruo Shui,” he answered.

　　She nodded, distant.

　　“What did you dream of?” Feng Xinzi asked. “Usually people can’t tear themselves away from pleasant dreams — but this is the opposite. Why can’t you be roused?”

　　“I don’t know. When I open my eyes I remember nothing,” she said.

　　“Alright. We’ll take it slow.” He promised to prepare calming herbs and then follow the downstream villages to see if they could locate her family.

　　“Thank you,” she said earnestly.

　　He brewed a bitter tonic and put it in front of her. She recoiled. “No thanks. That tastes awful.”

　　“Medicines are bitter but they cure,” he scolded lightly. “If you keep this up, you’ll become the world’s first person to die from lack of sleep.”

　　She stubbornly refused. After he teased and coaxed, she pinched her nose and swallowed it in one gulp, the bitterness lingering. She complained and asked if next time he could bring candies — she smiled so charmingly that he grumbled but later actually added licorice to make it milder.

　　Feng Xinzi then pulled out candied fruit like a magician. She snatched them, proud as a child, and grinned at him. He laughed with her; she was easier to please than she looked.

　　Chewing slowly, a memory tugged her down and her expression collapsed again.

　　“Not good?” Feng Xinzi asked.

　　“No… it’s good,” she said. “Someone used to buy me candied fruit. If I called, he’d appear. He carried me out into the sun every day. Even when my legs wouldn’t move, or when I knew nothing of the world, as long as he was there I felt safe.”

　　“You love him,” Feng Xinzi observed gently.

　　Ruoshuī paused. “What is love? I don’t know. I just needed him. I depended on him. That’s not—maybe not love?”

　　“Do you want me to help you find him?” Feng Xinzi offered.

　　She shook her head hard. She didn’t have the courage or face to seek him out again.

　　Feng Xinzi didn’t press.

　　After several days of the tonic her nightmares persisted. One night she woke to find an especially foul black potion in front of her, and she snapped: “This stuff’s bitter and useless. Why bring it?”

　　Feng Xinzi sighed. For someone known as a master physician, this little nightmare case was proving tough. The only real solution might be to find her family — but Ruoshui wore no birthmark, carried no token. Finding relatives would be like searching the ocean with bare hands.

　　Still, Feng Xinzi spotted clues: her skin was flawless and delicate; she was ridiculously picky about food — only liking meat and rich dishes and often refusing greens and plain rice; she lacked basic everyday knowledge. A person who’d forgotten everything usually retained subconscious traces of past life skills (a cook would still know spices; a physician would still intuit herbs). Ruoshui had none of that.

　　So he reasoned: she must have been raised in a sheltered, affluent household — a girl kept at home and never venturing out. The theory narrowed the search.

　　For gossip and information, the best place in Yunfu was Anxiang Pavilion — the premier teahouse/brothel where every kind of person gathered.

　　Feng Xinzi was confident enough to toss Ruoshui a set of men’s clothes. “Change into these. We’ll go out.”

　　Though puzzled, she trusted him after a few days’ care and obediently changed. When she opened the door Feng Xinzi stood waiting.

　　He eyed her outfit and frowned. “Your hair — it needs to be tied up.”

　　“I don’t know how,” she said.

　　“Good grief — how were you raised?” he muttered, half exasperated. He grabbed a wooden comb and tied her hair with a ribbon; there were no hairpins, so the ribbon had to do. She looked better, and she peered up at him. “You’re pretty good at this.”

　　Feng Xinzi shot her an unreadable look. “I really want to know how your parents raised you.”