Courtyard House: Home Alone

Shimizu Tōsan's pupils suddenly contracted, and his hand holding the velvet box froze in mid-air. The chill in the West Flower Hall seemed to solidify at that moment, freezing his breath into tiny ice crystals.

The branches of the old plum tree outside the window were weighed down by the wind and snow, and a few early-blooming buds were faintly visible in the dim light, like a few stubborn fireflies.

"Mr. Tang,"

His voice suddenly became unusually calm, a calmness that concealed a dangerous undertone. "You misunderstand. The Empire values ​​the spirit of contracts above all else; we would never break an agreement."

He slowly and meticulously put the velvet box back into his inner pocket, as if the threat from before had never happened. "As for that teacup, it was truly my fault. Tomorrow, I will definitely send someone to deliver a complete set of Ming Dynasty blue and white porcelain as an apology."

Tang Baolin slightly lifted his drooping eyelids, a glint of shrewdness flashing in his cloudy eyes. He shifted the position of the hand warmer between his hands, and the fox fur coat slipped down half an inch with the movement, revealing a dark blue silk cotton-padded jacket underneath.

"Mr. Shimizu, you're too kind."

His tone softened, like a kind elder accommodating a junior's recklessness, "I am not an unreasonable person. It's just that the rules of 'Ghosts' are there, and I am merely a messenger."

Well then... I can convey your message, but whether it works out or not is not up to me.

Shimizu Tosan's shoulders relaxed slightly, and his leather shoes twirled lightly halfway across the blue bricks. "Then I'll have to trouble you, Mr. Tang. The Imperial Army Hospital really can't wait any longer."

"You have to wait, whether you can't or not. You know 'The Ghost's' temper. If you're not afraid of losing many of you, you can try. See if 'The Ghost' will slaughter you all."

Tang Baolin suddenly raised his voice, his withered fingers tapping the brazier with a dull sound. As he spoke, he tucked the brazier into his clothes and turned to walk into the warm pavilion.

"Old Zhang, see the guest out."

Butler Zhang appeared silently at the corner of the West Flower Hall, as if emerging from underground. He carried a lantern in his hand, its dim yellow light swaying in the wind and snow, casting a long shadow of Qing Shui Dong San that stretched all the way to the moon gate where Tang Baolin had disappeared.

Shimizu Dong San stood there, a thin layer of snow already accumulated on the shoulders of his woolen coat. He stared at the moon gate for a long time, until the halo of the lantern flickered and Old Zhang coughed. Only then did he seem to wake up suddenly and step over the high threshold.

"Thank you for your trouble." He nodded slightly to Old Zhang, his voice revealing neither joy nor anger.

Old Zhang led the way with a lantern, and the two walked silently through the wind and snow.

"Steward Zhang," Qingshui Dong San suddenly spoke, his breath dispersing in the halo of the lantern, "How many years have you been in the Tang family?"

Old Zhang paused slightly, the light from the kerosene lamp flickering: "Replying to Mr. Qingshui, I entered the household at the age of twelve, and I am fifty-seven this year."

"Forty-five years." Shimizu Tōsan repeated softly, the hem of his wool coat brushing against the snow on a rockery. "And you know Mr. Tang's health best, don't you?"

Old Zhang didn't turn around; his voice drifted from ahead, as if coming from a great distance: "When the master was young, he traveled all over the country, which left him with many ailments. In recent years, he's been particularly sensitive to the cold, and every winter he coughs and wheezes incessantly. That's why he was in the West Flower Hall just now..."

"I understand." Shimizu Tosan interrupted him, his leather shoes slipping on the frozen pond edge. He reached out to steady himself against a withered willow tree beside him. "I'm just curious, how does an old man with a persistent cough and wheezing still have the energy to navigate between merchants from various countries?"

Old Zhang finally stopped and turned around. The light from the kerosene lamp shone upwards on his deeply lined face, those wrinkles revealing forty-five years of hardship: "Mr. Shimizu, have you ever seen an old cat catching a mouse?"

Shimizu Tosan raised an eyebrow.

"The old cat doesn't run, doesn't jump, and hardly ever opens its eyes," Old Zhang's voice was deep, as if coming from the bottom of a well. "It just lies by the stove, watching the mice crawl into their cages. Only after the mice are inside do it slowly stand up and close the cage door."

After he finished speaking, he turned around again, the glow of the lantern continuing to move forward: "Mr. Shimizu, watch your step, the ice in this pond isn't solid."

Shimizu Tosan stood there, staring at Old Zhang's hunched back. Suddenly, the wind and snow intensified, whipping up snowflakes that stung his face like countless tiny needles. He raised his hand to wipe his face and found his fingertips were numb with cold.

"Butler Zhang," he hurried after him, his voice even lower, "if—I mean if—someone wants to bypass Old Master Tang and talk directly to 'The Ghost'..."

Old Zhang came to a complete stop.

He slowly turned around, the glow of the lantern drawing a dim, yellowish line between the two. Shimizu Tosan saw the old man's eyes gleaming in the depths of the light and shadow, like two bottomless ancient wells.

"Mr. Shimizu," Old Zhang's voice remained respectful, but carried a hint of something indescribable, "In forty-five years, I've seen off at least eight hundred, if not a thousand, guests. Some departed with dignity like you, and others..." He paused.

"Some never walked out of that door again."

Shimizu Tosan's Adam's apple bobbed. He suddenly realized that the silence of this mansion was not emptiness, but rather a presence with weight—the moon gate, the artificial hill, and the frozen pond were all watching him in the darkness.

"I understand," he said.

Old Zhang bowed slightly and continued to lead the way. This time, neither of them spoke.

The gates of the Tang residence stood open in the wind and snow, the light inside the gatehouse dim and flickering. Qingshui Dong San stepped out, then suddenly turned back: "Steward Zhang, that set of Ming dynasty blue and white porcelain…"

"Mr. Shimizu, you're very kind."

Old Zhang stood in the doorway, holding a lantern. His figure was outlined in a blurry circle by the light. "But the master said that the teacup is an heirloom, a connection passed down through eighteen generations. It can't be replaced by just anything."

Shimizu Dong San was cursing inwardly. He had just a modern Jingdezhen teacup, and he claimed it was an heirloom.

However, a standard smile remained on his face: "Of course. I will find another object worthy of this缘分 (fate/destiny)."

He turned and got into the black sedan waiting by the roadside. The wheels rolled over the snow with a dull thud. Old Zhang stood there with his lantern, watching the two taillights disappear at the end of the alley before slowly closing the door.

A young servant poked his head out from the gatehouse: "Master Zhang, that Japanese man..."

"Go to sleep." Old Zhang hung the lantern on the wall, took out a tin wine pot from his pocket, and took a sip.

Old Zhang didn't answer, but just stared at the snow falling heavier and heavier outside the window. The branches of the old plum tree swayed violently in the wind, and a few early-blooming buds finally couldn't bear the weight and fell into the snow one after another.

Deep within the warm pavilion, Tang Baolin was facing a solitary lamp, writing something on Xuan paper with a wolf-hair brush in small regular script. His coughing and wheezing had subsided, and his withered fingers held the brush with remarkable steadiness, each stroke exuding the strength and elegance of metal and stone.