Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

On the eve of Gai Nie's entry into the city, Xinzheng was quieter than usual.

Yang Hui sat on the rooftop for almost an hour. He carried no sword, no lamp, and not even an outer robe. The autumn night wind swept in from outside the city, carrying the dry, cool scent of earth. He rested his hands on his knees, watching the distant outline of the city wall slowly sink into the night, torches lighting up one by one along the top of the wall, like a thin thread being strung together.

Yan Lingji didn't come up. He heard the door to her room open and close once after nightfall—but no footsteps led to the stairs. He knew she wouldn't come up tonight. That night, when she told him "fire recognizes people," they no longer needed to sit on the same roof every night to be considered "present." She left him to sit alone.

But when he went downstairs, there was something extra on the kitchen windowsill. Yang Hui came down from the roof, crossed the yard, and was about to go upstairs when his gaze swept over the kitchen windowsill. The persimmon was placed on the outer edge of the windowsill, the moonlight shining on it, and a very thin layer of mist condensed on its orange-red skin. He paused for a moment, then walked over and reached out to take it. The moment his fingertips touched the persimmon skin, he felt its warmth—not the warmth of being baked by the sun, but a warmth that emanated from within, even and even, like a warmth that had been held in someone's hand for a long time.

He held the persimmon, not eating it immediately. He turned it over and saw a very faint mark next to the stem—as if someone had repeatedly rubbed that small patch of skin with their fingertips until the surface was slightly shiny. He gently touched that mark with his thumb, then brought it to his mouth and took a bite.

is sweet.

He stood by the kitchen window and slowly ate the whole persimmon. The juice spread between his teeth—just as sweet as the previous one. He placed the pit on the windowsill, not throwing it away. The night breeze blew, drying the juice on his fingertips. He stood there for a while, then tucked the pit into his sleeve, turned, and walked back to the roof ridge. He sat back down in his usual spot; the moonlight was brighter than before, and the torches on the city wall were still in their original places.

He closed his eyes and mentally went over everything he needed to do the next day: walk the route near the North Gate after dawn; check if the gatekeeper was still there; make sure no one was watching near the North Gate. Then he waited. Until the moment Gai Nie appeared outside the North Gate. The wind swept in from outside the city, growing colder and carrying the dry, dried smell of harvested crops from the distant fields.

He repeated the name in his mind—Gai Nie. Tomorrow will arrive.

Then he opened his eyes and took the persimmon pit from his sleeve. It was small in the moonlight, and one end had been bitten open, revealing the thin kernel inside. He squeezed it, then put it back into his sleeve. The night wind was still blowing, the torches were still burning, and the night in Xinzheng silently carried the dreams of everyone on the city walls, while he sat on the eaves, clutching a small pit in his hand.

It's like holding onto a tomorrow that's just starting to sprout.