My name is Mei Shuci. By day, I’m a calligraphy teacher.
Late at night, I often feel the scar on my left chest. It was left by heart surgery five years ago, and is also proof that someone else’s life continues through me.
Yi Fan, the surgeon who operated on me, said this heart would beat with the donor’s kindness.
But whenever I copy ancient texts, I feel a flutter that doesn’t seem to belong to me.
Then an invitation arrives, and I go to meet its sender with my wound still unhealed. I have no idea what trap lies beneath the scent of osmanthus. It isn’t until someone collapses that I realize the heart’s owner may never have truly “left.”
