FYM - 80

Song Shuyan fell ill.

On the very day she heard the devastating news, she developed a high fever and remained bedridden for several days, drifting in and out of consciousness. In her dreams, she alternately called out for “Grandmother” and “Third Brother,” her plaintive cries breaking the hearts of those who heard them. No one in the Qiao household was surprised by her condition. Zhui-er and Nurse Cui had long anticipated this day. They tended to her carefully, hoping that after this illness, the deep sorrow weighing on her heart would dissipate, allowing her to move forward with her life.

It wasn’t until half a month later that she began to recover. By then, the weather had turned cold at the cusp of autumn and winter. On the first day she was well enough to leave her bed, she instructed Zhui-er to prepare their travel arrangements. The latter was startled and asked uneasily, “Miss, does this mean… you’re returning to Jinling?”

Indeed, the Qiao family’s treatment of her had grown distant, but the larger household in Jinling was even more predatory. Now that their mistress had lost both Lady Qiao and Lord Fang’s protection, wouldn’t her unworthy father and stepmother torment her to no end?

“No…”

Fortunately, Song Shuyan had no such plans. Wrapped in her robe, she gazed out the window, her expression desolate and detached.

“…We’re going to Yingchuan.”

Yingchuan?

Zhui-er was momentarily stunned, then realized her mistress intended to visit Lady Fang. Perhaps even now, she still refused to believe Lord Fang was truly gone. She needed to visit places connected to him to finally accept his passing.

“Yes, this servant will get right to it…”

Zhui-er felt tears welling up again, knowing that this illness hadn’t lessened her mistress’s grief but instead deepened her fixation. Those around her could do nothing but worry helplessly.

If only Second Young Master were here…

I wonder if he… is still safe?

Before leaving, Song Shuyan paid a visit to her uncle and aunt, handing over all the wealth, property, and land left to her by her grandmother. The two elders exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of joy and surprise.

“Shuyan, what is this about…?”

Her uncle hesitated, his tone probing. Song Shuyan meant to offer him a smile, but even that small effort eluded her. She simply said, “It’s a modest token of gratitude to you, Uncle and Aunt, and also a gesture of goodwill toward my nephews and nieces.”

Her demeanor and voice were subdued.

“I’ve long been aware of the trouble I’ve caused by staying in your home all these years. Now that Grandmother has passed, I have no right to keep anything she left behind… I don’t know when I’ll return to Qiantang, but I hope you take care of yourselves and that the entire family remains safe and prosperous.”

These were words of farewell. Though they were calm and dignified, they carried an unexpected poignancy. Her uncle and aunt weren’t entirely devoid of affection for her, and as they held the returned property in their hands, their hearts were a tumult of emotions. Zhang-shi steadied herself and looked at her niece once more before finally saying, “Grandmother loved you most in her lifetime. You should take some of what she left behind… Life outside isn’t easy, and you’ll surely need it…”

There was a note of sympathy in her words. Perhaps at that moment, Zhang-shi recognized that Song Shuyan had nowhere else to go and couldn’t help but feel a pang of compassion for her as a fellow woman. But Song Shuyan only shook her head and declined, thinking to herself: What use are these riches when I can’t even find a place to belong? When she rose to bow again, her expression had returned to its previous detachment. Perhaps she truly no longer cared about many things.

From Qiantang, they sailed north to Yingchuan, a journey that took just over half a month. Zhui-er and Nurse Cui accompanied her, along with Ding Yue, who carefully escorted them.

“Did he tell you to accompany me until when?”

Song Shuyan asked Ding Yue. The lightness of the word “he” she used weighed heavily on the heart.

He didn’t answer, perhaps because he had never received explicit instructions. She gave a faint smile and said, “Then until the day I leave Yingchuan… You may stay with the Fangs and needn’t follow me any further.”

She was still recovering from her illness, her frail figure deeply worrying. Ding Yue couldn’t help but recall the first time he met her, over a year ago. Back then, she had just become betrothed to his lord—her eyes had been much brighter, and her entire presence warm and radiant.

“This lowly one…”

He didn’t know how to respond.

She didn’t need him to. During the voyage, she remained exceptionally quiet, spending her time alone in the cabin except for meals and medicine. The windows were tightly shut, as though she didn’t want to hear the sound of the river. It wasn’t until they entered Yingchuan by carriage that the silence was broken. The sight of the entire city draped in mourning surpassed even the somber scenes of Xidu in the seventh year of Yuanzhang. The person being mourned by the people felt closer to her than ever.

The world was in chaos, and even the cities under Fang governance showed signs of unrest. Soldiers newly conscripted into the army were everywhere, most of them young faces. The people were gripped by fear, and cries of grief could be heard everywhere.

The carriage windows were closed again, and inside, she wept silently. Never in her life had she felt such profound despair and helplessness. Even without entering the Fang estate, she already knew… she had lost him forever.

When they entered the old residence, the mansion was eerily silent and empty.

This place was as solemn and imposing as the Jin Guo Gong manor in Chang’an, which she had visited only once. The mourning banners hung everywhere were just as bleak and mournful. For some reason, this illustrious family always seemed plagued by misfortune and calamity. Perhaps they had given everything to the world, leaving themselves only a desolate expanse of white.

Ding Yue led her slowly inside. Beyond the courtyard, they saw several members of the Fang family kneeling in the main hall. Most were female relatives, with only a few very young children, none older than ten. Suppressed sobs of grief came intermittently as they paid respects before a row of ceremonial garments representing the fallen men.

…Ceremonial garments.

The defeat within the pass had been catastrophic. By now, the imperial army had retreated entirely south of the Wu River, while the rebels and Turks occupied the entirety of Longyou and half of the inner territories. No one in the court could lead troops to Shangxiao Valley to retrieve the bodies of the ten thousand Divine Strategy soldiers who had sacrificed their lives. They had died to protect countless civilians, but their remains would never return home. Perhaps they would be gradually buried by the desert sands or subjected to humiliation by barbarous enemies.

They were someone’s fathers, sons, husbands, brothers… Yet all these ties of flesh and blood had vanished, reduced to memorial tablets and empty tombs, leaving their wives, children, and sisters with hollow grief.

Song Shuyan stared at the blinding expanse of white, the sobs fading from her ears. Her feet seemed to move of their own accord, step by step, until she finally saw Jiang-shi at the front of the crowd—and before her, a familiar yet distant figure clad in black robes and adorned with jade.

That… that was…

A fresh blade pierced her heart, recalling the first time she had glimpsed him through the screen in Yayan Hall. He had likely worn black robes and jade then too—”like frost piercing a jade tower, or snow brewing in a flower.” That moment, she had felt the iron curtain of fate descend.

Now…

She suddenly felt a metallic tang in her throat, and the next moment, her vision blurred. Zhui-er and Ding Yue rushed to her in panic. In a flash of white light, the last thing she saw was his past smile and voice.

He had said, “This matter is not appropriate for the ladies. Please step aside.”

He had said, “I lack the ability to make decisions alone, nor do I wish to impose on others.”

He had said, “Fourth Miss is a pure and intelligent person. She shouldn’t torment herself over this.”

He had said, “You only have this one boat. You should go somewhere better.”

He had said, “If you’re still willing, call me as your second brother does.”

He had said, “I couldn’t help but feel something for you.”

He had said, “Shuyan, I must go.”

…

How laughable… How could such fleeting days leave so many marks on her heart? Were those words truly so extraordinary? Or was it simply because… she had been so earnest and deeply moved?

I seem to have lost the answers.

Or perhaps… I simply no longer wish to find them.

When she awoke, it was already nightfall.

She lay on an unfamiliar bed in a spacious, austere room. A candle flickered dimly on the table, its light dizzying. The metallic taste lingered in her throat, and her chest ached faintly. After a long while, her vision finally cleared. Turning her head, she saw a figure in white beside her bed.

“Madam…”

She recognized her—it was Jiang-shi.

It had been nearly two years since their parting in Qiantang. Though they hadn’t met in person, they had exchanged letters several times. She had never forgotten to send her regards to this kind and respected elder. In this time of upheaval, she clung to her as her final hope.

…And yet, Jiang-shi had grown terribly thin.

In just two or three years, she had endured two losses, each of a beloved. At the end of the seventh year of Yuanzhang, when the late Duke had passed, she had angrily confronted the emperor in the mourning hall, nearly driven mad. Now, having lost her only son, she appeared strangely calm. Perhaps she had grown accustomed to such heart-wrenching farewells—or perhaps…

“You’re awake?”

Jiang-shi turned to look at her, her features still kind and gentle, though she was far too thin, her neck veins clearly protruding.

“Madam…”

Tears streamed down Song Shuyan’s face. She tried desperately to sit up, but her weak arms failed her halfway, and she collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for breath as if suffocating. Jiang-shi gently wiped the sweat from her forehead, her expression serene even in the dim light. She softly consoled her: “Good child, you’re sick…”

That single phrase, “good child,” shattered her heart. It brought back memories of days in Qiantang, when those she loved and those who loved her were still by her side. How quickly they had slipped away. Sobbing, she crawled toward Jiang-shi, clutching at the hem of her robe, her thin fingers trembling. Her muffled sobs were hoarse and unbearable to hear.

“There, there…”

Jiang-shi gently stroked her back. Though they shared no blood ties, their joys and sorrows were intertwined.

“I know you’ve suffered. I know you’re exhausted…”

She comforted her thus, though she herself was the one who had lost her dearest kin, the one who now bore the burden of holding together a shattered family. Yet she seemed to feel no pain of her own. Perhaps at the end of suffering, what emerges isn’t anger or hatred but an unimaginably pure compassion and tenderness.

“It was Yi Zhi who wronged you.”

“…It was the Fang family who failed you.”