By the time Master Hao’s servant arrived, Xueming’s stomach was eating itself.

  Xueming suspected from its relentless tumbling and groaning that it had a mind of its own, and it continued to protest this careless, food-free day that Xueming seemed to be living. Honestly, it was a little surprising that Lanzhi had forgotten to get something for Xueming, but that was just testament to how overwhelmed he was.

  Xueming had considered stepping out into the city, but was too afraid that Master Hao’s servant would arrive while he left. Besides, it wasn’t like he had any money.

  Xueming idly wandered through the medical shop, praying that no other doctor would arrive before Lanzhi could return. He gripped the prescription in his hand as if his very life depended on it. He couldn’t help but feel anxious around strangers; though the new authorities declared equal treatment for all, Xueming had heard of a few incidents. Everyone had.

  And so, he had to be extra cautious.

  He walked from the entrance area to the back preparation room but found it too overwhelming, and quickly returned to the front. It was at least a little easier to breathe here.

  Xueming noticed the shop had no seats except for the one behind the small desk in the back room.

  Xueming smiled, wondering if a past incident with a stubborn customer led the doctors to remove any and all benches. Now, the shop felt more like a place for quick pick-ups, drop-offs, or emergencies.

  Well, it seemed the doctors still couldn’t avoid emotional customers—the one who had walked in earlier was perfectly content to spiral while standing.

  When Lanzhi emerged from the back room, he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find the male fox spirit still lingering at the entrance, waiting to leave with him. Of course, neither was Xueming.

  That man hadn’t stopped wailing the entire time he had been there, but Lanzhi didn’t seem irritated in the slightest. He truly could ascend with his patience alone.

  Xueming, on the other hand, had been slowly losing his mind to the tune of the man’s snivels.

  Xueming leaned against the counter, glancing down at the prescription in his hand, eyeing all of the characters carefully, reading and then rereading them in case he was mistaken.

  Treatment for the Mistress

  Diagnosis: Qi Deviation

  Primary Concerns: Qi Degradation, Hallucinations, Insomnia, Emotional Instability

  Treatment:

  Longgu and muli (consume a single serving once a night)

  Ginger and jujube tea (consume a single serving of tea every morning)

  Instructions for Consumption:

  Place a single scoop of longgu and a single scoop of muli powder directly into warm water that has not boiled and add a dollop of honey and stir gently. Serve directly.

  Place 3 slices of fresh ginger and 7 unpitted jujubes into 5 servings of tea’s worth of boiling water for an incense stick’s time. Serve a single cup of tea directly without any ingredients. Reheat for subsequent servings.

  Notes:

  This prescription is unfinished and may be adjusted.

  Please wait until my first visit for further instruction.

  A priest will be coming with me on my first visit to analyze the mistress’ condition. This is non-negotiable.

  Prescribed by: Doctor Jian

  Xueming suddenly realized both Doctor Mao and Doctor Jian had failed to address the mistress properly, but Lanzhi’s oversight was much more apparent. He smiled bitterly.

  But it was a little strange—sure, Xueming could believe Lanzhi had done it for his sake, but what about the Hao family’s previous doctor? Was Master Hao so cautious no one could address his wife by her name?

  But Xueming moved on, realizing he couldn’t figure out what either of these doctors were thinking by just burning a hole into the paper with his eyes. Instead, he began to read the diagnosis, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Lanzhi was as shameless as he was patient, throwing the mistress’ condition right in Master Hao’s face—who still refused to believe his wife’s life force was deteriorating.

  But Xueming wasn’t surprised—Lanzhi really only cared for his patients, not for the face of some master.

  Xueming couldn’t help but admire Lanzhi as a doctor: with this prescription alone it was evident he had spent long hours contemplating the mistress’ condition and the treatments he could offer as herbal doctor.

  Xueming knew his brother was even skilled enough to treat the mistress without relying on any cultivator interference, but for the mistress’ sake, it was best to acknowledge the extent and limitations of each form of treatment.

  Herbal methods would be too slow for the direness of her condition.

  But Xueming was curious about the extent to which the mistress had actually devolved.

  The paper in his hands began to tremble and he gripped the counter for support, realizing the cause was the instability of his own hand. He set the paper down, not wanting the oil of his fingers to damage it any further and clutched at his stomach, the pain of hunger unbearable.

  He had spent his entire adulthood in hunger, but now that he had experienced the feeling of satisfaction, he was astonished to realize he could no longer endure such desperation. Or rather, he didn’t want to endure it any longer.

  He wanted to live in the civilized world and not be reduced to that of an animal.

  In prison, he had spent day in and day out only contemplating his next meal. It was how those prison guards reduced him to an animal. How could he have cared for manners and etiquette and propriety in such a state?

  How could one pretend to be human when ravenous?

  Only Xueming knew that all of these airs and all this face quickly disappeared when hunger set in.

  Impatiently, he wandered to the front door, leaving the prescription beside the medicine bag on the counter.

  But just as he was about to open it, that little bell seemed to jingle on its own, and a man burst through the door, almost knocking Xueming over.

  “Ah!” Xueming gasped, stepping back, trying not to lose his balance.

  The pounding of his heart was painful; he wondered if he could truly bear such a shock to his body.

  Embarrassingly, he gripped the handle of the front door and keeled over. Xueming wheezed as the newcomer fretted over him. Though he didn’t have the breath to make the man stop, the constant whining only aggravated him.

  “Young Master!” the servant exclaimed worriedly. “Is Doctor Jian here as well?”

  “No,” Xueming gasped, forcing himself upright. “He had an… emergency. I am the one… who will give you… the medicine.”

  The servant looked even more startled.

  “What does Young Master mean by that?”

  Xueming quickly realized the man before him was the same servant who had first pestered Lanzhi to treat Master Hao’s wife. He was most recognizable by his pristine blue robes. Xueming subconsciously glanced down at his own, suddenly conscious of his own appearance.

  Today, he wore grey robes that he happened upon in his room. He was certain his mother had bought him some after estimating his current size with just her eyes.

  “Young Master, may I ask what you mean?” the servant repeated, trying to remain polite.

  Xueming immediately noticed how hurriedly the servant spoke; it was clear that this servant was simply a man always in a rush. The first time Xueming had seen him, he looked like he was gasping for air.

  In comparison, Xueming moved and spoke at the speed of a turtle, constrained by the limits of his worn-out body. He almost smiled, wondering if the servant found him difficult to deal with.

  If he did, surely his thoughts came and went too quickly for him to ever really dwell on it.

  “My brother had an emergency,” Xueming repeated, emphasizing each word. “I am here… to give you… the medicine.

  The servant looked ghastly, though he didn’t exactly have the palest of skin.

  What was wrong with him?

  If Xueming didn’t know better, he would have thought he had said something absurd.

  “So, who will administer the medicine?” the servant squeaked out, wiping at the sweat on his forehead.

  Xueming lazily walked over to the counter to grab the prescription and held it out for the servant. The servant’s eyes only flickered down to the paper, then back up at Xueming, his body unmoving.

  It only took a moment for his mouth to protest.

  “Oh, I can hardly read…”

  Xueming blinked a few times, then hastily pulled away, flushing with embarrassment. How could he forget something so simple?

  Before Xueming could blurt out an apology—or say anything else that would make the situation more uncomfortable—the servant spoke again.

  “We can hardly administer this ourselves. Out of all of us, only Master Hao and the household’s accountant can read.” The servant paused, clearing his throat. “We can hardly have… I mean, this is such a sensitive thing…”

  Xueming blinked again, realizing the servant was inadvertently saying his own master was incapable of handling the medicine. Of course, Xueming knew this without having to be told, but to hear a servant indirectly say it aloud was oddly amusing.

  “It’s just like making tea,” Xueming replied nonchalantly. He grabbed the bag of medicine with his free hand and slipped the prescription inside, wanting to push the servant out of the door as quickly as possible. Like he had been blessed by the heavens with a moment of clarity, he felt some impending entrapment close at hand.

  “Ah… no…” the servant protested lamely, then tried: “When is Doctor Jian back?”

  Xueming began to walk towards the front door, silently communicating that this really was all he could do for him, hoping the servant would soon relent.

  “Not any time… soon,” Xueming said vaguely, feeling there was no need to explain further.

  Really, he couldn’t find any other words to.

  The servant pursed his lips, unmoved by Xueming’s unsubtle attempt to get him to leave. He stood there as if he suddenly had all the time in the world.

  “Ah, well, could… Young Master administer this medicine?” the servant wondered, his dark eyes widening hopefully.

  Xueming wasn’t exactly the best liar.

  Of course, out of pure necessity, he had learned how to lie well in prison, but it had been months since then. In isolation, his lies became the truth: his name was Thirteen, he both wanted and did not want food, and he was in prison for betraying his country.

  He had repeated the answer so many times, it was really all he knew to be true.

  So now, Xueming couldn’t exactly lie and say that he did not know how to administer it, even if he only spent the day watching Lanzhi.

  “Ah, well…” Xueming hesitated, his lips still slightly parted with hesitation. “I could hardly…”

  “Young Master knows how!” the servant brightened, clapping his hands together. “Young Master is a savior! Please, follow me—I’ve come in a carriage.”

  Xueming blinked a few times, his arms full of everything they needed. He really felt there was nothing else he could do but follow, as if all of Lanzhi’s warnings had vanished from his memory.

  As soon as they left the shop, the servant—his hands completely empty—boldly shut the front door behind them. Xueming took a deep breath, finding the air outside unbelievably fresh. He had gotten so used to the air inside the shop, he hadn’t even noticed how thick it was when they left.

  His moment in nature did not last long; the servant hurried over to a carriage parked right outside the shop and ushered him inside.

  The carriage was like nothing he had ever seen.

  It was grand and majestic—all bone white with yellow gold trim. In the very center of the large roof was a bold red dragon, striking and rich against the pale backdrop. Two impossibly large white horses stood at the front, their muscles rippling as they shifted their weight.

  Xueming walked over to it like he was walking on eggshells, glancing between the servant and the carriage, wondering if it was appropriate for him to enter such a thing.

  If this was not an Er Bai carriage, then Xueming could hardly picture one.

  Despite Master Hao’s dwindling funds, he still clung to all of the same luxuries as before, keeping up appearances. If Xueming wasn’t looking closely, he could almost believe Master Hao’s position was unaffected by the change in government.

  Xueming waited for the servant to open the tiny little bone white door with a delicate golden handle and awkwardly stepped inside, trying to carry all of the items in one arm while gingerly touching the side of the carriage to propel himself forward.

  He landed on plush red cushions, his face just as red as he practically fell into the carriage.

  The servant did not say a word and simply shut the door, trapping Xueming inside.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Xueming looked around the interior in wonder, finding it all the same bone white color with identical red-cushioned seats on either side. The floor was a light grey. Beside him was a tiny red curtain to cover what he assumed could only be a window. The carriage door had no window, so very little light managed to seep inside.

  As soon as he sat down, he bent over to let the bag land on the cushion beside him, his muscles feeling quite strained from holding it even for that short period of time. He held out that same arm to keep it from falling off of the carriage when it began to move.

  He sat back in relative peace, feeling relaxed despite their impending destination. It was, without a doubt, the most comfortable carriage he’d ever been in.

  Xueming only peeked past the red curtain a few times, mostly content to simply stare at the plush cushions across from him and feel the carriage rock beneath him. They stopped several times due to traffic and other commotions, but it was a relatively smooth ride. He remembered the distance to the Hao residence as much longer, but that must have been because he and Lanzhi stopped at several other residences beforehand.

  Xueming and the servant arrived at the residence a while later, and Xueming only snapped out of his daze when the servant opened that bone white door, then placed a little wooden foot stool on the ground.

  “We’ve arrived, Young Master,” the servant announced.

  It was hardly practical for Xueming to throw himself onto the ground in the same way he launched himself into the carriage.

  The servant respectfully placed a hand on his arm to steady Xueming as he stepped out.

  Xuemin was greeted by that same grand gate of red and gold carvings, with those two guardian dog statues on either side. Amidst the carvings was a plaque engraved with a single character—a character Xueming could only assume was pronounced ‘Hao’. When he had read Doctor Mao’s prescription earlier, he hadn’t really recognized the character, but could easily guess it based on simple deduction.

  He knew the radicals and curves well enough, yet for some reason, the character as a whole slipped his mind. By now, though, he’d seen it enough times to remember it.

  The servant scrambled around—back to his usual panicked rushing—and welcomed Xueming into the front courtyard, which they crossed in little time. Those same red lanterns led Xueming to a grand building with a large wooden door.

  The servant didn’t knock this time; instead, they both hurried inside.

  The building seemed empty upon entering and it was only then that Xueming suddenly felt like he really shouldn’t be there.

  It was still early afternoon, so the entry hall was void of any candlelight or incense. Natural light streamed in and lit up the building well enough.

  The servant continued to urge Xueming through the hall and out to the main courtyard. Xueming’s body was alternating between flashes of cold and hot as he stepped out into the winter air and back into one of the residence’s main buildings.

  His boots tapped, tapped, tapped along the little stone path, past those dried up ponds and wilted flowers. Their conditions seemed to have worsened since his last visit. The servant pushed open the overbearingly heavy door to the main hell and held it open for Xueming, who was hardly keeping up.

  “This way, Young Master,” the servant murmured.

  Unexpectedly, the servant did not stop here, and instead pushed on past the large central table and those rich red chairs neatly arranged along its side. The candles lining the side tables were sparsely lit, but there was at least some sign of life here.

  Xueming was even more uneasy when they hurriedly left the main hall and stepped out into another inner courtyard. Certainly, the master here had been impossibly rich, even if the same could be said now.

  Xueming shivered, his heart pounding from both the hastiness of their pace and the certainty that he really was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

  Still, if the servant was leading him here, then there wasn’t any reason to worry.

  “The mistress’ residence is to the right,” the servant informed him.

  Xueming saw three more stone paths before him, leading to three similar buildings as before. This residence felt like a maze; he had really never been in such a luxurious place.

  There was a medium-sized tree at the front of the mistress’ residence, pressing against its walls. Xueming’s breath caught in his throat at the sight.

  Impossibly white plum blossoms covered the entirety of the tree, laying against the residence as though they had been grown for it, and not the other way around. Xueming had forgotten—plum blossoms bloom in winter, right around the spring festival.

  Other little foliage was spread out neatly in the spots where there was no stone path. The breeze here was cool, almost like it was already spring. That tree seemed to block the worst of the winter wind.

  The servant hardly gave Xueming enough time to appreciate the courtyard; he was already at the door of the residence, and Xueming stopped on a whim. He stared at the dark door to the mistress’ residence, his heartbeat in his throat. His palms managed to sweat despite the chill.

  He had already come this far.

  “Where—Where is Master Hao?” Xueming asked, fear and anxiety evident from the shakiness of his voice.

  “Inside,” the servant responded in a stale voice, as if even a single question was wasting too much time.

  Xueming really had no choice but to go inside.

  He had become too agreeable to refuse, especially now that he had silently assented to the task of preparing the medicine. It was although the realization of what he was about to do suddenly dawned on him, and with it, all of his insecurities weighed down heavily on him.

  His legs began to tremble.

  How could he play doctor after watching his brother make half of the prescription only once? He was working off of his poor memory and a piece of paper.

  If anything went wrong, it would be his fault.

  Xueming carefully stepped into the residence, feeling a wave of warmth hit him, along with the musky scent of sandalwood. Xueming thought that if he were to remain for just half an incense stick’s time, he wouldn’t be able to wash that smell off his clothes for a lifetime.

  He suddenly recalled Lanzhi complaining that the previous doctor suggested they burn it at all hours, and wondered just how many years this essence had been soaking into the walls. Even if they stopped burning sandalwood now, Xueming was certain the smell would never fade.

  Master Hao was waiting on a cushioned bench in what looked like a room for hosting guests, dressed in a loose cream robe with red trimming along the wrists and neck. A number of candles flickered in the room, casting shadows under his eyes that were even deeper than the last time. He seemed to be sweating profusely in the heat of the residence, and Xueming suspected there was at least a fire lit somewhere in the place as well.

  Why was it so hot?

  Xueming recalled Lanzhi’s words about too much heat, but his brother’s voice was swiftly replaced by the man’s in front of him. Master Hao stood up, pushing up off the bench with what looked like great effort.

  He even shook a little as he stood.

  “Honorable Brother Jian,” Master Hao was quick to greet him first. “I am so pleased you could make it.”

  Xueming was at a loss for words, his arms still awkwardly holding the medicine. He could only hug the mag tighter and clamp one hand atop the other in greeting.

  “My brother could not… come today,” Xueming explained vaguely. He left the rest of the message in his eyes, his gaze pleading that the master would understand his panic. How could he do this by himself?

  Surely the master wasn’t so desperate as to let someone with no knowledge and no training treat his wife.

  “Ah, have you brought the medicine?” Master Hao smiled gratefully, dabbing at his forehead with a pale handkerchief that had a simple red swirl design on it—sort of like a tail.

  “Yes,” Xueming hurried to explain. “My brother said… it is easy to administer. So—”

  Master Hao sighed with a grateful smile, looking exhausted.

  “I am so glad I have Doctor Jian and Brother Jian to help out during such a taxing time.” Master Hao uttered quietly, clasping his own hands in a show of respect. “I am sorry to leave this to you, but I must get back to handle some other matters. My wife will be in your care.” He paused, really looking at Xueming for the first time. “She is relatively peaceful now. There were just a few incidents during the night…”

  “Ah,” Xueming said thoughtfully, looking over Master Hao’s extremely disheveled appearance. His oily hair was matted to his head, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. His hands even moved with a slight tremble. “It seems like… something happened…”

  “Ah, no, no,” Master Hao immediately shook his head with a small smile, looking down. “Nothing happened. Times have just been tough. You never know when it’ll be your last day with someone, you know?”

  With that, Master Hao abruptly left the residence, leaving his precious wife at the mercy of this untrained man-child she most definitely had a history with as an adolescent.

  It seemed Master Hao was really out of options.

  Xueming huffed, his breathing coming out strained at the weight of the man’s words. Something on his tongue tasted bitter, as though he had drunk tea without honey. He had a sudden irrational thought that the man was utterly appalling.

  Blubbering around for a few moments, Xueming remembered he was not alone in the room, and almost dropped the medicine when he spotted that servant smiling behind him. After making a little gasping noise, Xueming half-fell onto the bench, trying to protect the bag from any harm. The prescription slipped out of the bag, and he watched it slowly waver side to side in the air, until it ultimately landed on the deep brown wood panelling beneath his feet.

  “I will show you to the room to prepare medicine,” the servant said, as though nothing was the matter—as if Xueming wasn’t an awkward mess. “But first, I know Master Hao would feel more at ease if you could check on the mistress’ condition.”

  Xueming blinked a few times, trying to keep his jaw from going slack.

  Did they forget he was just fresh out of prison? That he wasn’t the doctor—it was his brother!

  The servant hastily turned around and opened a door at the side of the room, waiting for Xueming to follow. Xueming only now took in his surroundings, feeling his vision blur a little from the candlelight and heat.

  Still, he could appreciate a well-decorated room.

  He felt so warm here, but not just from this unbearable heat.

  Everything was a shade of red, brown, or yellow. Everything seemed warm, even just to look at.

  Flowery paintings and dancing foxes with many tails, all accompanied by delicate calligraphy, covered the walls, and there were several side tables containing little figurines or fresh flowers. The bench Xueming was still on was a plush red, just like the seat of that carriage he had sat on, and their base, a deep mahogany. A small wooden table was placed in the midst of the benches, its surface bare.

  It was sort of wonderful to be here, but Xueming couldn’t pinpoint why.

  He just felt warm, like a flame that never burned was embracing his entire body. All his anxiety slowly disappeared, and he forgot why he was so anxious to begin with.

  After picking up the prescription, he pushed himself onto his feet and wandered over to the door the servant waited at, feeling awkward. Now, he had to pretend to check the mistress’ condition? At the very least, he hoped the servant wouldn’t watch him.

  They walked down a little hallway lit up by tiny candles that had nearly become little pools of melted wax, and the further they walked, the stronger that sandalwood scent became. By the time the servant stopped, Xueming could hardly breathe.

  “The mistress is in here,” the servant whispered, and Xueming only nodded slightly.

  She must be asleep.

  Xueming’s heart pounded in his throat and his hands began to sweat so profusely, he was afraid he was wetting the bag. He urgently pressed the prescription into the servant’s chest, knowing it would be soaked beyond recognition if he continued to hold onto it.

  The door was decorated with two tails that curled opposite to each other, like one was being reflected in a mirror. They were painted a blood red.

  After a hasty breath, Xueming pressed a free hand against the door and nudged it open a crack.

  Sandalwood invaded his senses, disturbing his nose, burning his eyes, and scratching at his throat. He nearly wanted to run out of the place just to breathe fresh air again.

  But he kept that sweaty hand on the door, nudging it further.

  He looked back at the servant, but he did not move.

  Then, realizing he would not be followed, Xueming stepped into the private quarters of Master Hao’s most favored concubine, all alone.

  His eyes squinted in the darkness of the room. It was daytime, and yet the room was lit only by a few candles; all the windows were completely covered to block any natural light from streaming in.

  There was a small vanity on the side of the room, all red and gold and glass. Tucked beneath it was a little red stool. Various products and objects cluttered the surface of it, but Xueming suspected they were all the wrong things for a lady.

  Instead of brushes and cosmetics and perfumes, he saw folded pieces of cloth and neatly stacked cups and little containers that most definitely held medicine. The rest of the room was clear, except for a few books tucked onto a tiny shelf on the right wall. The focal point of the room was the bed, tucked away in the darkest corner.

  This was the room of a very ill person, with only remnants of a favored concubine in it.

  Xueming swallowed hard, carefully placing the bag of medicine on the floor beside the door, yet out of the way in case anyone came in.

  His entire body was in turmoil, his very soul disturbed. Something felt very, very wrong, like some of the mistress’ demonic qi was attacking his own very weak life source.

  Slowly, he approached the bed, unable to see anyone on it; his vision was blocked by the large overhead structure and the draping red cloth. It was all red and gold, like most of the residence.

  His mouth felt parched, his meridians like they were crawling with thousands of bugs, his heart like it would beat its last. His hands were so sweaty he could hardly rub them on his robes, and instead let them awkwardly hang away from his body, willing them to dry.

  He slowly stepped around the bed and stopped.

  A delicate, pale face was resting on a stiff pillow. The woman’s lashes were fluttering as though she was disturbed by some dream, her nose gently arching upwards. Her lips were a little dry and a little ghastly, yet they were still full enough for him to imagine what they looked like when she had been healthy.

  Upon closer inspection, her skin wasn’t just pale, but a little translucent, a little grey. The rest of her body was tucked into silk red sheets, but her form didn’t take up much space.

  The mistress was breathing softly, and Xueming hesitated, waiting.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  There was prickling at his eyes, a little bout of irritation at the corners, but it wasn’t because of some overwhelming nostalgia or bout of emotion.

  There was no grand moment of remembrance, no overwhelming flood of memories.

  He looked at her like he would a stranger.

  Instead, he just felt a little odd, like something was stuck in his chest. He began to cough quietly, not wanting to disturb the woman’s sleep. He closed his eyes, trying not to choke. He felt something touch him that hadn’t touched him all of his life, like the delicate caress of a hand.

  But that hand wasn’t real—it was only a ghost’s.

  Something touched him gently, and then invaded his very life force.

  His coughing spurred out erratically, unaccustomed to such an aggressive attack on his qi. He placed his hand over his mouth, his eyes flying open, his vision turning red as if he saw blood. The woman began to blur, and he reached out for anything he could lean on to steady himself.

  It felt like something was latching onto him, sucking him dry of any sustenance.

  He could hardly make sense of it, could hardly escape it.

  Xueming nearly collapsed onto his knees as dragged himself over to her bedside, courting death for a closer look. This woman was a stranger, and yet she seemed to be stealing his life force as though he were willing prey.

  Still, he didn’t mind. At that moment, he just wanted one thing.

  Feeling bold, he whispered one of the only real names his heart would respond to.

  It sounded like a caress, but it may just as well have been a curse.

  He wasn’t sure how he meant it to come out, but he wasn’t exactly skilled when it came to speaking.

  At first, the name was a stranger’s. He didn’t recognize it; he could hardly read it.

  Despite how desperately he wanted to recognize this woman’s face, he just didn’t. He was so frustrated he could scream.

  This woman’s face, too, was as foreign as a stranger’s.

  His heart responded to neither her name nor her face, but her name had somehow etched itself onto his heart ever since he had learned it, like it had always been there—just faded. He was certain this face would haunt him now. He was certain this face was no longer a stranger’s.

  And so, he contented himself with saying it just once.

  He had long lost the opportunity to say it often.

  Who was he, to call another’s wife so intimately? Who was he, to address a stranger so casually?

  No matter the reason he entered that prison, and no matter his past, he would not pretend he knew this woman. For better or for worse, he had forced himself to forget her.

  And so, just to try it out—as casually as one fits a shoe—he only said it once. He felt, after everything he had endured, he could at least take this one liberty.

  This woman invaded his life force without even a greeting, so why couldn’t he say her name?

  That bitterness from before remained on his tongue, but there was also something sweet.

  It was sickly sweet—like licorice.

  It was woody—like sandalwood.

  It was acidic—like vinegar.

  He was almost appalled that this woman who he did not recognize had once been in his life.

  How had he known someone so beautiful?

  And her name was beautiful too—full of clarity.

  “Qingling.”