The mirror didn't lie—it burned.

Xiu-ying looked into it and saw her own soul crackling with suppressed fire. At thirty, she was supposed to be content—a good wife, a devoted daughter, a woman who knew her place. Instead, she felt like a volcano waiting to erupt.

Her husband, Ping, noticed nothing. He was a good man, kind and steady, but he saw only what he expected to see. Xiu-ying became a ghost in her own life, present but invisible.

The breaking point came at the autumn festival. Her sister-in-law, marrying into the family, was praised for her obedience. Xiu-ying felt something snap inside her—a cord that had held her together for years.

She ran from the celebration, into the garden, into the darkness. There, alone, she screamed—once, twice, until her voice gave out. When she returned, her face was calm, her eyes dead.

Everyone said she had caught a chill. Only Xiu-ying knew she had caught fire.