Embedded Files
Psst! We're moving!
◎Past Life · First Encounter◎
In the sixth year of Chongjing, the new year had passed, but winter still lingered. Spring seemed reluctant to arrive, and a biting wind swept through the long corridors, emitting a wailing sound akin to a child’s cry in the night.
The sky over the imperial city grew dim, heavy snow falling alongside the clear night.
A young palace maid with double braids knelt shivering by the corridor, breathing onto her hands in an attempt to warm herself. But it was futile.
This year’s snowflakes seemed larger than usual.
Her hair, tied simply with a red string, was dusted with frost, and her frail shoulders were covered in snow.
The slap mark on her cheek had frozen over, numbing any pain.
Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise.
After sunset, the imperial city fell into silence. This path led to the desolate imperial prison, rarely traversed by anyone.
She had been kneeling here for two hours. Earlier, she could still hear faint voices from beyond several walls, but now only the sound of snow melting upon the copper rainwater vat beside her remained—a fleeting “hiss.”
Then, amidst the darkness and heavy snow, she suddenly heard the clinking of shackles.
On this bitterly cold winter night, a man draped in a pristine crane cloak slowly approached.
He moved very slowly—she turned her nearly frozen neck and immediately realized he must have been gravely injured, still bleeding. Faint traces of red stained the snow where he walked, quickly soaking in.
She stared unblinkingly at this man who appeared like a divine apparition in the snow, completely overlooking the two black shadows trailing behind him.
Then, the deity stopped before her.
She saw a pair of pale amber eyes.
He seemed extremely cold, his voice trembling as he asked, “Why… are you kneeling here?”
But he wore such a thick crane cloak—how could he feel cold?
She only wore a thin ruqun; shouldn’t she be colder?
The young maid opened her mouth, but it felt frozen shut. After much effort, she managed to produce a few muffled sounds. Her throat must have been frozen mute.
The two guards accompanying him grew impatient, maintaining a polite yet indifferent tone as they urged, “Master, we should be going.”
Before she could react, he removed the crane cloak she had envied and draped it over her.
Stunned, she gazed at his face close up, realizing how beautiful he was—aloof and noble, the kind she would normally never dare to look at directly.
Had he not been trembling as he fastened the cloak around her, she would never have believed this godlike man could intersect with her life.
His fingers, icy like jade bones, brushed against her cheek. Without his outer robe, he immediately shivered but still staggered to his feet, leaving a soft murmur: “Wrap yourself tightly.”
The maid clutched the cloak, looking up to see only his retreating figure—underneath, his bloodstained, tattered inner garment revealed his frailty. A rusted iron collar hung around his neck, with a chain dragging pitifully in the snow.
Finally, she managed to speak: “Master…”
Master, where should I return this winter cloak?
But the man did not turn back.
The lingering warmth from the crane cloak carried a faint scent of still water. She inhaled deeply, finding even the bloodiness imbued with an indescribable sense of sorrow.
Not long after he left, the snow stopped.
When daylight broke, the maid counted the hours, leaning on the red wall as she struggled to stand. Her knees were nearly frozen stiff, unable to walk. Without the thick cloak, she surely would have perished in the deep winter night.
She took a few difficult steps before collapsing again in the snow. Before she could rise, hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the alley. A flash of yellow robes appeared before her, and she heard a young, slightly panicked voice: “Who… gave you this crane cloak?”
Raising her head, she saw the emperor’s crown adorned with jingling jade beads, his face casting a solemn shadow in the sunlight.
One of the guards following him seemed to be one of the two who escorted the master to the imperial prison yesterday. He stepped forward respectfully and replied, “Your Majesty, it was Chancellor Zhou… Master Zhou passed by yesterday, took pity on her, and gave her his own cloak.”
Linking Zhou with the title of chancellor, even someone as slow-witted as her realized who the man from last night was.
She never imagined that Zhou Tan—the feared chancellor who had been vilified as a villain for five years—would appear so unexpectedly vulnerable.
It was precisely after her mistress, Consort Ting, visited this Zhou in the imperial prison that she became enraged, punishing the maid for a minor mistake by making her kneel for six hours in the corridor.
The emperor wanted to ask more, but at the end of the corridor, several guards carried a corpse wrapped in simple white cloth, bloodstains visible on the fabric. She noticed a slender, beautiful hand hanging from beneath.
A purple-robed man behind the emperor suddenly stumbled forward, rudely bypassing the emperor to lift the cloth. Seeing the face beneath, he froze, instinctively retreating until he tripped over the lotus-engraved copper rainwater vat, falling heavily before her.
She reached out to help, touching a string of colorful prayer beads on his wrist.
“Liar,” she heard his trembling voice, utterly distraught, abandoning all decorum. “How… how could this happen?”
Shaking, he crawled forward and knelt before the young emperor, crying out mournfully, “Your Majesty… Zi Qian!”
Frost glittered on Zhou Tan’s eyelashes. The emperor’s gaze shifted from the corpse to the crane cloak on her, muttering softly, “… He refused my things. If he had kept this cloak, he wouldn’t have died.”
Suddenly, he looked up, staring directly at her: “Why are you crying?”
Confused, the maid wiped her face with the back of her hand, realizing she was crying. A eunuch beside the emperor had handed her a warming brazier, and after holding it for a while, she finally found her voice: “Master Zhou gave me the cloak out of pity… I am the lowest, most insignificant person in the imperial city. His kindness… leaves me deeply grateful.”
The purple-robed man added, “He didn’t refuse Your Majesty’s things—he merely pitied this girl… Your Majesty.”
The emperor stubbornly bit his lip, remaining silent.
Seeing her attempt to remove the cloak, the purple-robed man stopped her, asking, “What is your name… and why were you kneeling here?”
She whispered, “This humble servant is named A Lian.”
Spring breezes once favored me, and even Chang’e feels like an old friend.
The emperor snapped out of his daze, hesitating before saying, “I remember… you’re one of Consort Ting’s maids.”
Even after freezing overnight in the icy snow, her cheeks bruised and blue, her beauty was undeniable—he had noticed her before among Consort Ting’s attendants.
Perhaps her punishment stemmed from this very reason.
A Lian dared not respond. If anything she said reached the consort’s ears, she would face further punishment.
Fortunately, the emperor didn’t press further, merely waving his hand wearily. “From now on, you needn’t serve Consort Ting. Go to Ranzhu Palace instead.”
Ranzhu Palace, built by the late emperor for sacrificial purposes, required only light duties like sweeping, lighting candles, burning incense, and keeping watch—an enviable position within the palace.
Trembling, A Lian thanked him. The emperor personally helped the purple-robed man to his feet, carefully re-covering the corpse with the white cloth. Looking lost and dispirited, he led his entourage away.
The night before leaving, the emperor remembered to have her carried back to her quarters and summoned a royal physician.
A Lian couldn’t quite understand.
The emperor and the purple-robed man clearly cared deeply about Master Zhou in white. Why, then, had no one come to check on him last night when it was so cold?
If they had arrived earlier, perhaps he wouldn’t have died.
Though the emperor had arranged for her to be moved to Ranzhu Palace, somehow Consort Ting still found out. After kneeling all night and running a high fever for several days, the consort used her illness as an excuse, claiming it might spread, and sent her along with other infected palace attendants to be expelled from the palace.
A Lian was sent with this group of attendants to Xiugqing Temple on Tingshan Mountain.
For her, this might actually be a good thing.
The monks at Xiugqing Temple set aside a courtyard for these palace attendants and arranged for someone to care for them. She hadn’t contracted any illness and soon recovered. She helped care for the sick and assisted the female novices in washing vegetables and cooking meals. Life here was much more peaceful than in the palace.
Aware of the trouble beauty could bring, A Lian never removed her veil, even those close to her assuming her face had been marred by illness.
One day, while burning incense and praying, a member of the royal family left behind a poetry collection on the prayer mat.
The novices picked it up but couldn’t understand it. When it reached A Lian, her heart trembled.
Spring Sandalwood Collection .
A friendly novice asked curiously, “A Lian, do you know how to read?”
A Lian nodded slowly. “Many years ago, my father served in the court, but he was implicated and exiled far away. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead now. My mother fell ill shortly after my father’s misfortune and passed away. I was confiscated as a servant and brought into the palace.”
The novice asked curiously, “Ah, what was your name before?”
A Lian thought for a moment. “I think I was surnamed Qu… but I can’t remember the rest.”
Under the moonlight, she painstakingly read every word of Zhou Tan’s poems, memorizing them thoroughly.
She read:
“Green jade branches refuse to yield, a single path of spring light cannot strategize. Dew and snow press upon the branches yet remain unstained; tranquil waves stir as though hateful foes.”
She also read:
“In this world, the sky rains azure blessings, tides rise and green conceals, falling without reason.”
And:
“Snow returns early in spring, allowing people to feel young again.”
Finally:
“Life despises me, I see only the sun; swallowing my cries, old and sick, I weep for a hopeless road.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, this line is not good.”
With a brush dipped in thick ink, she blacked out the entire poem.
In the late spring cold snap of March, fewer visitors came to Xiugqing Temple compared to January. During the final spring snow of the sixth year of Chongjing, a branch of the tree tied with many red ribbons in the front yard snapped under the weight.
The red ribbons on the old locust tree were originally tied by worshippers making wishes. A broken branch was considered unlucky. A Lian, who could read, helped the abbot untie the ribbons and reattach them elsewhere.
She carefully removed the others’ wishes and placed them in a wooden box to the side.
Over time, layers upon layers of ribbons had accumulated on the branches, with some of the earliest ones beginning to fade. As she untied the last ribbon, frayed and whitened at the edges, she paused, startled.
Zhou Tan’s handwriting was exquisite—sharp, lean strokes like gold hooks and jade carvings, imbued with an unyielding spirit.
“To my late mother, I am about to marry, filled with unease. Protect my wife, grant her safety and peace… The road ahead is long, the seas vast and turbulent. May I hold steadfast to my original heart. Written by Tan.”
She tucked the ribbon into the poetry collection.
On a sunny day, she retied the ribbon onto the centuries-old tree. The sun shone through her white veil, slightly warm.
Slowly, she worked, recalling many past events.
In the fourteenth year of Yongning, Zhou Tan returned to the capital after his provincial posting and entered the Ministry of Justice.
Emperor De intended to arrange a respectable marriage for him, preferably with a family of modest rank, not overly prominent, ideally neutral among the literati.
At a banquet hosted by Gao Ze, Gu Zhiyan heard the eldest daughter of Shi Guan, Qu Jia, compose 108 couplets with Gao Ze’s eldest daughter. After the banquet, he sent a visiting card to Shi Guan.
The wedding date was set for the following summer.
Zhou Tan read her poem, “Before the hall, flowing water carries flowers away; between heaven and earth, two remain unaware,” and during the New Year, sent two jugs of homemade apricot flower wine.
Gao Yunyue secretly went to see him and returned blushing, telling her that he was truly excellent.
She had always been proud, and such praise did not come easily.
All the daughters of Bian Capital envied her such a fine match. He was the top scholar of three consecutive imperial exams, young and promising, elegant and free-spirited. Even the prime minister’s daughter hadn’t married him, and she, they said, had gotten lucky.
She pouted at Gao Yunyue, sticking out her tongue.
“I’m so great, why didn’t you say he got lucky?”
Gao Yunyue laughed with her: “You are indeed wonderful. Marrying you would be his fortune.”
But she never met Zhou Tan, nor did she wait for that wedding.
In the fifteenth year of Yongning, the Ranzhu case erupted. Gu Zhiyan and his associates were imprisoned, and Qu Cheng, implicated, was sentenced to exile for three thousand miles. His son accompanied him, while his wife and daughters were confiscated as palace servants.
Her mother fell gravely ill and died before the apricot blossoms bloomed, passing away in their home.
Gao Yunyue exhausted every means to fabricate their deaths, preventing them from being sent to the entertainment district. Instead, they entered the palace as ordinary maids.
Zhou Tan survived the Ranzhu case. Fresh out of prison, he came knocking at her family’s door, injured all over. She hid behind the door and softly told him:
“The young miss has already passed away. There’s no need for you to visit anymore.”
She knew he was in no position to help. Why should she involve him in their misfortunes and bring him trouble?
Besides, she didn’t want him to see her in such a disgraceful state.
Gao Yunyue had concealed her identity so well that despite Zhou Tan’s thorough investigation and intention to provide assistance, he ultimately found nothing.
Not long after entering the palace, she offended the head nursemaid due to her incompetence and was assigned to hard labor in the flower garden. One sister entered Consort Fu’s palace, soon disappearing without a trace, while another gradually lost contact.
Carrying a potted apricot tree past the imperial court, she heard whispers that the young Lord Zhou had angered the emperor and was receiving corporal punishment.
She entrusted a little eunuch with her usual ointments for injuries, slipping him some silver to deliver them. The eunuch, disdainful of her meager offering, pocketed the silver and traded the medicine for peanuts to snack on, discarding the ointment somewhere unknown.
When spring arrived, Zhou Tan was demoted to Ruozhou.
Much later, upheaval swept through the palace. He killed the deposed crown prince, returned triumphantly to the capital, and supported the young emperor’s ascension to the throne.
The edict was unclear, and he, though young, bore a reputation that couldn’t silence public opinion. Even as she moved about with her mistress, she could hear murmurs everywhere.
Yet she remained indifferent, as if she had never known him.
Indeed, she didn’t recognize him.
Years in the palace had worn away the remnants of her pride.
Her father’s fate was unknown, her sisters long swallowed by the cold, crimson walls of the palace. Gao Yunyue’s entire family perished in the disaster stirred by the deposed crown prince. Few, if any, remembered her anymore.
Even she had forgotten her old name. Hearing that the young chancellor had remained unmarried and annually sent an apricot branch to the borderlands stirred no emotion within her.
On a spring night, she gazed at the moon, lost in thought. Soon, someone called angrily, “A Lian!” She lowered her neck and hurried over.
“This humble servant is here.”
The moon was still the same moon, the spring breeze the same breeze, brushing against her face as before.
Spring breezes from the past… refuse to pity me. Chang’e is cold, no familiar faces remain.
She had forgotten everything about her past life, so why now… sitting beneath the ancient tree adorned with fluttering red ribbons, did she suddenly recall her name?
Jia… Yi.
Beautiful intentions, alas, could never be fulfilled. If there were a next life, she wouldn’t want to bear this name again.
A Lian clutched the old wish tightly and wept bitterly under the bright sun.
That night, she slipped out of her quarters, carrying the poetry collection, intending to escape over the wall.
Passing by an open temple hall, the golden statue of Buddha looked down with compassion, its presence solemn.
For reasons unknown, for the first time since entering Xiugqing Temple, she knelt devoutly on the prayer mat, bowing deeply. Trembling, she made a wish.
“If the Buddha hears this humble believer’s prayer…”
She had so many wishes.
She wished her family had never fallen, that her loved ones had not perished, that… she could live her life holding onto her former pride, no longer bowing low as a servant.
After much deliberation, only one wish escaped her lips.
“Let me be reborn eternally by Master’s side, repaying the kindness of the old garment.”
As she spoke, she felt it was somewhat greedy. It sounded less like a wish for Zhou Tan and more like one for herself.
She fled Xiugqing Temple that night. Falling from the wall, she thought she heard the abbot’s compassionate sigh.
Perhaps it was an illusion. Had he been there, he would have stopped her. She was still a member of the royal household.
A fine drizzle fell on the spring night. She walked along Tingshan for a long time, finally reaching a small hill outside the capital.
Zhou Tan’s reputation was tarnished, rumors claiming the emperor had discarded his body in a common grave. But having witnessed the events herself, she doubted this. Later, overhearing the emperor’s prayers behind a curtain, she discovered this place.
Sure enough, neatly arranged simple graves dotted the hilltop. Some names on the tombstones were familiar, others not.
They must have been people who lived boldly and freely.
If only she had the chance to meet them and live such a life… it would have been wonderful.
This year, the snow melted early, perhaps allowing one to return to youth?
Beside the old stele Zhou Tan erected for his parents, she saw a new grave.
Unexpectedly, the tombstone bore not just Zhou Tan’s name.
The stele was ancient, dated to the fifteenth year of Yongning, when the Ranzhu case began. Zhou Tan, barely surviving the penal system, had personally carved a tombstone for himself on the mountain—a joint burial marker. Carved into it was the surname of his betrothed wife, ensuring she would have a place to rest, never lonely.
Her fingers brushed the tombstone, unable to tell if the moisture on her face was spring rain or tears.
When the apricot blossoms bloomed again, Su Chaoci brought a jug of wine to the mountain and noticed fresh soil around Zhou Tan’s grave.
He didn’t think much of it. This place was secluded; likely, the rain had washed it anew.
A red ribbon, faded at the edges, was tied to a tree before the grave. He couldn’t make out the faint writing on it and let it flutter in the wind.
Later, it was blown away, never to be seen again.
Love in this world, too, is like the azure rain from the heavens—falling without reason.
Flowing water carries flowers away, between heaven and earth, two remain unaware.
Google Sites
Report abuse