Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

Yang Hui woke up at daybreak.

He sat leaning against a pillar all night, his back against the wall, the Heaven-Asking Sword lying across his lap. The roosters in the backyard of the Purple Orchid Pavilion crowed three times. The first time, he opened his eyes and glanced at the sky. The second time, he stood up and stretched his limbs. The third time, he heard a very faint sound coming from the next room—the bed creaked.

He stood outside the door holding a bowl of porridge. The porridge had been cooked by Zi Nu before dawn and was simmering on the stove in the residual heat. A dish of pickled vegetables and half a boiled egg were also placed beside it. When Yang Hui picked it up, the porridge was still hot. He stopped at the door of the side room without pushing it open. He listened first.

There was no sound from inside. After the creaking of the bed, it was as if something had fallen silent again. He waited three breaths, then raised his hand and knocked on the door with his knuckles.

"……Enter."

The voice was very soft, as if the throat had been rubbed with sandpaper. Yang Hui pushed open the door. The brazier in the side room was almost extinguished, the embers still glowing a dark red. The window was ajar—Zi Nu had been there, letting in some fresh air. The person on the couch was already sitting up, leaning against the pillows, the blanket pulled up to her chest, covering her with that old cotton robe. Her hair was dry, loose and disheveled over her shoulders, as if it hadn't been combed. Her face had some color in it than last night—not the normal rosy glow, but a change from "transparent white" to "paper white," like a thin layer of frost under which the signs of life had finally appeared.

She looked at him.

She watched Yang Hui push open the door and come in, watched him stand in the doorway holding a bowl of porridge, watched the morning light streaming in behind him outline his figure. Her eyes lingered on his face for a moment, then she looked down at her own hand—the chain marks on her wrist were still there, a faint purple welt, like an old bruise. She rotated her wrist to make sure it didn't affect her movement, then looked up at him again.

"Who are you?"

Yang Hui placed the bowl of porridge on the low table and sat down on the stool beside the bed. He sat slightly lower than the bed, his gaze fixed on her. He remained silent for a moment, as if considering which word to begin.

"Ten years ago," he said, "on the border of the Baiyue region, in a dilapidated temple. It was a rainy day."

Yan Lingji looked at him without speaking. Her eyes were calm—different from Zi Nu's calmness, it was a different kind. Her calmness was like a well, very deep, bottomless, and when you looked into it, you didn't know if there was water inside.

"There was a girl in red in the temple," Yang Hui continued. "She gave half a piece of dry food to a passing child. The food was still warm. The child said he would come back to her. She said—"

He paused for a moment.

She said, "Liar."

Yan Lingji's eyelashes fluttered slightly. Just a very light flick, like a breeze across water. She looked at him as if piecing together an even older face from his own—the face of a smaller, thinner boy covered in mud.

Then she shook her head. "I don't remember."

Yang Hui wasn't surprised. He pushed the bowl of porridge closer to her. "It's okay if you don't remember. Drink the porridge while it's hot."

Yan Lingji looked down at the bowl of porridge. The porridge was rice-white, with a thin layer of rice oil floating on top, steaming gently. When she reached for the bowl, her fingertips recoiled the instant they touched the rim—it was hot. Yang Hui noticed but didn't move, simply saying, "Hold the bowl by the bottom. The rim is hot, but the bottom isn't."

She glanced at him and did as he said. She picked up the bowl and took a sip, holding the rim of the bowl directly without a spoon. She drank very slowly, pausing for a long time after each sip, as if savoring the taste of something "hot." The second sip was faster, and by the third, her fingers began to tremble slightly—not from the cold, but a physical reaction she couldn't quite control, like not having performed an action independently for ten years, and suddenly needing to do it again, her nerves unsure how much effort to muster.

She finished half the bowl and put it back on the low table. Then she said, "You still haven't said who you are."

Yang Hui.

"Yang Hui." She murmured the three words to herself, as if memorizing a name that wasn't easy to remember. "Who am I?"

"Your name is Yan Lingji."

"Yan Ling Ji." She murmured it again, then looked down at the faded red dress she was wearing. "Is this dress... mine?"

"yes."

"How long ago did I wear it?"

"ten years."

Her fingers hovered over her clothes, motionless. She looked down at the cuffs of her garment—the edges were frayed, revealing loose threads underneath. She stared at them for a long time, then said, "Ten years. I don't remember anything from those ten years."

Yang Hui said, "You've been frozen for ten years. It's normal not to remember. You'll gradually recall what you can remember. And it's okay if you can't remember anything."

Yan Lingji looked up at him. "The way you talk is strange. You always say 'It's okay.'"

Yang Hui didn't deny it. He stood up, took the bowl of porridge away, and stopped at the door, turning his head to say, "You said 'water' last night. Do you remember?"

Yan Lingji thought for a moment. "I don't remember."

"It's understandable that you don't remember." Yang Hui pushed open the door and walked out. Morning light streamed in, and he stood in the light, glancing back. "You rest first. The food's in the pot. Call the neighbors if you need anything."

He went out and closed the door behind him. But he didn't go far. He stood outside the door, and through it, he heard a very soft exhale from inside—like the long sigh of relief someone takes after finally confirming they are still alive.

He stood by the door for a while, then took the bowl back to the kitchen. Zi Nu was preparing vegetables by the stove. Seeing him come in, she didn't look up, only saying, "Did you tell her?"

"I said so."

"Does she remember?"

"I don't remember."

Zi Nu paused for a moment, then continued picking vegetables. "So, what are you planning to do?"

"Let her live her life at her own pace."

Zi Nu put the selected vegetables into the basket, then looked up at him. "She doesn't remember you. You've sacrificed a year of your life for someone who doesn't remember you."

Yang Hui placed the bowl of porridge in the water basin without answering. As he turned and walked out of the kitchen, he said, "She doesn't remember, but I do."

Zi Nu stood motionless in front of the stove, watching his figure disappear into the morning light outside the door. She bent down, scooped the bowl of porridge from the basin, and began to wash it.

She muttered to herself, her voice so low that only the firewood beside the stove could hear, "They're all incredibly stubborn."