Song Yinmo had told me he dreamed of me in a green skirt on a swing. That night, I dreamed the same.
In the dream, my shifu had a gift with plants. Every growing thing he touched thrived under his care. Even this late in spring, every plum tree in the courtyard still held its blooms—clusters of red, vivid and cheerful, so bright they seemed to carry a faint fragrance even from a distance.
I moved through the garden in a green skirt, light on my feet, the hem lifting and settling with each step like water disturbed by a stone. A plum branch was in my hand, its flowers tight-lipped, trembling at the edge of opening.
I passed through the flower-covered archway and stopped just outside an open bamboo gate. I poked my head in and looked. A young man in a white robe sat inside with his head bent low, grinding ink. The long line of his neck curved slightly downward. Every movement carried an unconscious elegance that was almost unreal.
He never looked up—and yet somehow he already knew I was there. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Which nosy little cat is lurking outside?" he said. "Stare at me all you like. I still can't conjure dried fish out of thin air."
I puffed out my cheeks. I wasn't going to be shy about it. I walked straight in, and just as he bent his head back over the inkstone, something came over me. I tossed the plum branch at him.
He heard it, looked up—and caught it, easily, one hand moving without apparent effort. He raised it to his nose and inhaled. Red plum against white robe. It was a sight worth keeping.
A thought formed quietly inside me. I smiled. "The fan you're painting for me—skip the bamboo. Paint plum blossoms instead."
He inclined his head, set the branch down, rolled back his sleeve, and picked up the brush. The way he painted—unhurried, composed, every line exact—was something I could have watched for a long time.
I kept quiet so as not to disturb him. I padded over to the low padded bench beneath the open window and settled there. A few scrolls sat on the small table beside it. I picked one up and began to read.
He painted at the desk. I read by the window. Ink smell on one side, birdsong on the other. Time moved without hurry. The world felt still.
Lost in the text, I turned a page and found a willow leaf tucked between the sheets—a bookmark. Beneath it: a poem, a favourite, marked for keeping. Something made me glance up. He was looking at me too, eyes curved with a quiet smile.
I raised an eyebrow. Looked back down at the poem he had marked. "At the waning of spring in the outer city," I said, half to myself, "girls on swings play past dark, forgetting to go home?"
He set down his brush. His smile was light, unhurried. He finished the verse: "A lovely girl, uncaring of how heavy her fine silk grows, competing with the willow floss to see who flies higher."
I closed the scroll carefully. My eyes were bright. I looked up at him and let a small smile show, and said, in my most unreasonable tone: "It's all your fault for marking this poem. Now I want to go on a swing."
He thought a moment. Then: "I'll build you a frame. How does that sound?"
My face lit up—then immediately turned suspicious. I tilted my head at him. "Why are you being so kind to me?"
He tilted his head back at me, the barest smile still in place. "Call it compensation for that time I abandoned an ally. I'm trying to repair my image, which you've clearly stamped 'utterly without conscience.'"
A laugh escaped me. "How generous of you. Fine—from now on I'll count you among the truly upright."
He said nothing. But he looked very pleased indeed.
* * *
He did build the swing—planted between stretches of spring flowers, long silken ropes, a smooth crossbar. When I first saw it, I couldn't contain myself.
In the bright spring afternoon, I settled onto the swing and turned, laughing. From the flower-covered corridor below, the young man in white stood watching—tall and still as a pale tree, a branch of blossoms drifting over the wall above him, trailing loose petals around him in slow spirals.
I grinned. I put two fingers to my lips and let out a loud, shameless whistle in his direction.
He blinked. Then he smiled—just once, brief—and walked over. He reached up and closed both hands around the ropes. Then he pushed.
I stared, not quite believing it. But he treated it as entirely natural, so eventually I did too. I tipped my head back, let the smile take over my face, and gave in to the swinging—giddy and full. I was enjoying myself thoroughly when his hands stilled.
I looked back at him. He was smiling—but faintly, from somewhere far away. His mouth moved. "Today I finally understand," he said, voice just loud enough to hear, "what it means to say a woman can bring a city to its knees. A beauty like that comes once in a lifetime."
I didn't dare look at him. I stared straight ahead and forced my face blank and calm. My heartbeat is perfectly steady. Nothing is happening.
When I didn't answer, he made a soft sound—amusement, low in his chest. Then his hands dropped from the ropes. He stepped back. "Don't smile at me like that again," he said quietly.
His voice was clear, like water over stone. But it left behind a silence that felt like an empty room. He turned and walked back into his study. His white-robed figure disappeared through the door.
When I came back to myself, I was alone on the swing. I let it slow to stillness and sat there, discovering the whole afternoon had gone pale.
Fine. I set my jaw and started swinging again, harder, laughing louder—loud enough to carry through the window, hopefully straight to his ears.
I was putting on this noisy display when something felt off. I looked up. On top of the wall, half-hidden in the green canopy of a pagoda tree, a young man in purple crouched there—still, watching me with ember-bright eyes.
The shock nearly knocked me off the swing. I scrambled for the ropes, body lurching on momentum, and barely steadied myself. I stared at him. He was striking—strong brows, clear eyes, the sort of face that reads as guileless even when it has absolutely no business being on top of someone's wall. He gave off no sense of threat, despite every reason to.
I narrowed my eyes and kept my voice down. "Which little thief are you? You have a very nice face, which is why I'm giving you fair warning—my shifu is formidable. Get out of here while you can."
The young man in purple just stared at me. Didn't speak. Didn't move.
I pressed my lips together and was about to try again—when the young man in white called from inside the study.
Chuner, he said. Who are you talking to?
Chuner?
Chuner—
My eyes opened. I sat straight up on the bed, heart slamming, pulling free of the dream with my whole body stiff with the effort. But the name he had called me—that name—beat against the inside of my chest until it hurt.
I breathed. You've been thinking about it. That's all. He mentioned the name yesterday. Of course it crept into a dream. It doesn't mean anything.
It wasn't yet the fourth watch. I lay back down, but sleep stayed away. I turned from one side to the other and finally gave up, sat up, found the flint by feel, and lit the lamp on the table. Its warm yellow light fell over the wooden box I kept at my pillow. I lifted it into my lap and pressed the mechanism. The compartment opened. I drew out the slip of paper from inside and held it in the light.
I looked at it—quiet, still, nothing moving in my face. My thumb moved across the edge of the paper. It was a gesture worn smooth with repetition, the way something becomes automatic over years of doing it without thinking.
It lives here in my heart—when will I ever forget?
Who was the one I had hidden away and could not forget? Why did looking at this slip of paper fill me with such grief?