Yan Jiu's mourning workshop at dawn. Empty coffins line the walls like sleeping sentinels. Incense smoke curls through cold air. A single calligraphy brush rests in a ceramic holder.

Yan Jiu sits at his low table. His worn leather ledger lies open. He writes with precise strokes. The pages are filled with names, dates, and cryptic notations.

A knock at the door. Yan Jiu looks up. A servant waits with a sealed letter.

A private room in a tea house. The broker waits. She is a woman in silk, her face half-shadowed, speaking in a tone that sounds like she's reading terms.

Close-up on Yan Jiu's face as he processes this. The broker continues speaking.

Yan Jiu reads the contract. His expression does not change but his hand tightens on the brush.

Yan Jiu studies the contract. The broker waits. He should read it. He doesn't.

Yan Jiu signs. The brush makes a clean stroke. The broker takes the contract.

The broker leaves. Yan Jiu sits alone in the empty tea room. The lanterns gutter.

Night. Yan Jiu returns to his rented room. He lights a single candle and opens his ledger.

Yan Jiu turns another page and stops. His brush hovers. He stares at something on the page.

Yan Jiu reads the page again. His finger traces the characters describing the mole.

Yan Jiu closes his eyes. He reaches for the memory. There is nothing there — not absence, but a space where something should be.

Yan Jiu sits in the candlelight, staring at the page. He turns back through the ledger, searching for context.

Close-up on the description of the woman. The handwriting is tender in a way Yan Jiu's usual precise script is not.

Yan Jiu touches the page. His fingertip rests on the description of the mole. He feels nothing.

Yan Jiu picks up his brush. He writes. His hand is steady.

Close-up on the new ledger entry. Yan Jiu writes a list.

The candle gutters. Yan Jiu closes the ledger. He looks at the worn leather cover, the brass clasp.

Yan Jiu sits in the dark. The candle has gone out. He does not relight it.

Yan Jiu in darkness. He touches his own face, as if checking that he is still himself.

Dawn light. Yan Jiu kneels at his table. He has not slept. The ledger is open again.

Yan Jiu stands. He folds the ledger and tucks it into his sash, beside his body. The gesture is automatic, habitual.

Yan Jiu walks out into the morning street. The city moves around him. He is one mourner among many.