The first thing I feel is the weight of my thighs against the subway seat—real, solid, unapologetic. Not the delicate ankles that once dangled from palanquins. I clutch my coffee, staring at the reflection in the train window: brown eyes wide with panic, skin paler than I remember, hair chopped short like I tried to disappear.

Then I see her.

On a billboard above the platform—Sylvia. Smiling. Flawless. Dripping diamonds, draped in white fur, captioned: 'Beauty Is Power.'

My breath stops. That smile. I saw it the night they said I’d fallen ill. The night I choked on tea that tasted like lotus and lies.

She’s not just alive. She’s winning.

My phone buzzes—a notification. My private blog, meant for three readers, has gone viral. A post titled 'The Empress Who Was Erased' is climbing热搜. Thousands are asking: Who wrote this? Is it true?

And beneath it, a comment from an account with one post: a single black lotus. Just like the ones served at my funeral feast.