In the mountains for half a month, the biting chill of early spring had already receded. On the cliff behind the small bamboo courtyard, fragrant grasses grew lush, and flowers bloomed one after another. Yesterday, Mengshi transplanted an unknown wildflower and placed it before Shang Rong’s desk where she copied scriptures.

Shang Rong liked its bright color, but before she could take a closer look, in the time it took her to yawn before the mirror, the flower in the small pot was plucked by a slender, pale hand and tucked beside her temple.

Shang Rong stared at the bare stem and leaves in the flowerpot and sulked for quite a while.

“Since it looks nice, what is wrong with me picking it for you?” Yet he did not understand at all why she was angry; in those clear, limpid eyes of his was nothing but confusion.

“I like it, so I want to see it before my desk every day,” Shang Rong finally could not help but speak to him, “If you pick it like this, it will soon wither.”

Yet the expression with which the youth looked at her was very strange. Shang Rong did not know what he was thinking, and she had never been able to understand his thoughts. In the end, she only heard him respond flatly with an “Oh.”

But when she woke this morning, she found that beside the bed, before the bronze mirror, on the writing desk, and even along the window lattice, all were filled with mountain flowers of every color, still beaded with dew.

“Susu?”

The moment Mengshi entered the courtyard, he saw Shang Rong holding her brush and staring blankly at the desk.

Shang Rong suddenly heard that voice, her hand holding the brush moved, and she came back to herself just as a drop of dense ink that had gathered at the tip of the brush spread across the xuan paper, blotting out two characters.

“Uncle Mengshi, why did you come back so early today?” she lifted her head and asked him.

“A few reckless fellows in the village got into a fight, not far outside the school. I had some spare time, so I went to watch the commotion. Who knew their brute force would be so great? I meant to break it up, but one shove from them sent me straight into the pond…” Mengshi felt somewhat embarrassed as he brought it up. “Later, the old xiucai from the small school lent me his clothes to change into, but you know my problem—before long, a rash came out and it itched terribly, so I came back to change again.”

Thanks to Zhezhu, Mengshi did not end up wearing that cloud-brocade undergarment again and again.

After hearing this, Shang Rong looked at Mengshi’s neck, and sure enough, there were already many reddish marks.

“You’ve been getting up early to silently recite the Daoist scriptures lately.”

Mengshi noticed the stack of xuan paper on the table filled with delicate handwriting.

“When Zhezhu is around, I never have any free time.”

Shang Rong set down her brush, her gaze falling on the small blot of ink on the paper. After thinking for a moment, she still crumpled the xuan paper into a small paper ball.

In half a month, she had only just barely finished silently reciting one volume of the Taiqing Collection.

All because Zhezhu always took her out to play.

They had gone to Shuqing City many times already, and every interesting place in the mountains he had taken her to see once.

Before, Shang Rong did not know how the rice in her bowl came to be, did not know what tune the cowherd in the painting was playing when he rode home on the ox’s back, did not know how important farmland truly was to a farmer.

Nor did she know how much hope ordinary people placed in each and every spring rain.

“It only covered two characters. Just continue writing, why crumple the whole thing?” Mengshi had clearly seen that most of the page had already been written.

“I do not like flaws.”

Shang Rong said, holding the small paper ball.

A faint smile appeared on Mengshi’s face. He clearly understood something, yet said nothing more. He only scratched the rash at his neck and hurried to his room to change clothes.

The courtyard fell silent, leaving only the faint rustling of Shang Rong’s brush tip. Her lips moved soundlessly as she wrote down, one by one, the lines she had memorized in her heart.

When she heard the door of the side room open again, she raised her head and saw Mengshi come out in a fresh set of clothes.

“Uncle Mengshi.”

She suddenly called out.

“Susu, if you want to ask me something, then ask. There is no need for hesitation.” Mengshi smoothed the folds on his sleeve and walked closer to her.

Shang Rong paused in surprise.

“Ever since the first time you saw the rash on my neck, you have been wanting to speak but holding back.” Mengshi smiled and added charcoal to the brazier at the side to boil tea.

“I am a little curious about your past,” Shang Rong said honestly, “Were you born in Tingzhou?”

“No,” Mengshi had no taboos about speaking of his past. He quietly noticed the probing hidden in the girl’s words. As he picked tea leaves into the teapot, he said, “I was born in Nanzhou. I am a coffin child.”

“Susu, do you know what a coffin child is?”

He lit the charcoal in the brazier.

“I do not.”

Shang Rong shook her head.

“It is a child cut out from a dead woman’s womb,” Mengshi spoke of his origins, yet his expression remained relaxed. “My master told me that when he was traveling through Nanzhou, he happened upon my dying mother in a stretch of wilderness. She had been struck by a sword. Before she breathed her last, she begged my master to cut open her belly and take out her child…”

“My master could not bear to refuse, and so I did not die inside my mother’s womb before I was even born.”

“After that, he took me back to Tingzhou’s Baiyu Zichang Temple. I grew up there,” as Mengshi spoke, he could not help but recall that period of his youth spent in the temple, and he sighed softly. “Because of my master’s protection, I lived an extremely carefree and beautiful stretch of days there. Later, when I went down the mountain to travel, I met Yaoyao’s mother. After returning to the secular world, I never went back to Baiyu Zichang Temple.”

And when he later entered the Dao again, it was not at Baiyu Zichang Temple.

“Did your master disapprove of you being with Yaoyao’s mother?” Shang Rong saw the change in his expression and asked.

“No,” Mengshi gathered the faint trace of bitterness in his heart and let a smile appear again on his face. “Though my master was a Zhengyang Daoist, his heart was broad and understanding. He told me that if I found the mortal world good, then I should go to the mortal world. If one day I found it no longer good, I could always return.”

“Only, when I wished to go back, he had already passed away.”

“Your master is very kind,” everything Shang Rong knew about the ‘Dao’ had been told to her by Mengshi, and she could not help but think of someone. “My master only spoke to me of rules—what I should do, what I should not do.”

“Susu also has a master?” Mengshi raised his eyes in surprise.

Shang Rong pressed her lips together and gave a soft response.

“Zhengyang teachings are mostly like that now, placing emphasis on rules and restraint, treating that as the path of cultivation,” Mengshi watched thin wisps of steam curl up from the teapot. “You do not actually need to listen to everything. Now that you are no longer within their ‘Dao,’ you might as well try looking more at those flowers.”

The spring sun was warm, golden light filling the eaves. Shang Rong almost unconsciously followed Mengshi’s gaze and turned her head.

On the window lattice were clusters upon clusters of mountain flowers in full bloom.

“When I stepped out of my room this morning, I saw him come back carrying so many flowers, his clothes smeared with mud,” Mengshi recalled seeing that youth in the morning mist, his whole body damp with dew, returning with a chill of moisture clinging to him. A smile lingered in Mengshi’s eyes. “Susu, it has been a long time since I have lived so peacefully for a while. Being here together with you all makes my heart glad.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Today, Zhezhu returned rather late. Night descended, thunder rumbled at the horizon, and before long, a fine pattering rain began to fall again. His light figure moved through the curtain of rain. His jet-black robes were almost soaked through, and the great swathes of bloodstains clinging to his sleeves were washed into pale red streams that dripped continuously from the hem of his robe.

Night mist spread thickly among the bamboo grove. He halted within it, his pitch-black eyes seeming even clearer and brighter after being rinsed by the rain. He fixed his gaze on a place within the mist.

“Go take shelter from the rain.”

“Yes.”

From the forest, several voices sounded almost at the same time. The bamboo branches soaked through by rain swayed unsteadily, as if a gust of wind had swept past, and in an instant there was no more movement.

One of Zhezhu’s hands remained pressed before his lapel as he quickly crossed the bamboo grove and entered the courtyard. The moment he raised his head, he saw a window open above the wooden steps. The lantern beneath the eaves flickered, its light illuminating the pale face of the girl sitting by the window.

Zhezhu’s eyes brightened. He hurried up the steps and stood in the corridor, facing her across a single window. Rain dripped and pattered, and his voice was cool and pleasant: “You were waiting for me?”

“Are you hurt?” Moist air and the strong smell of blood clung to him, but he stood a little too far away, so she reached out and hooked a finger into the diexie belt at his waist to pull him closer.

The boy had no guard against her at all. Drawn forward by the not-so-great force of her hand, he took two steps toward her, then lowered his eyes to look at her fingers hooked into his jade belt.

“No.”

He said softly, taking out from his robes that thick oil-paper package and giving it to her.

It was the sugar cakes he had kept warm against his chest the entire way, not a trace of rain having touched them, not even one piece broken.

Shang Rong looked at the sugar cakes inside. The night rain crackled sharply by her ears. She could not help but lift her head again to look at his damp brows and eyes.

Several candles were lit inside the room, a wash of orange-yellow lamplight reflecting upon the gauze screen. Shang Rong caught a vague glimpse of the boy’s shadow behind it as he loosened his clothes, and she immediately turned her face away. Facing the window filled with misty rain, she bit into a sugar cake.

He had just taken off his outer robe when Mengshi called him outside to bathe.

Shang Rong ate the sugar cakes while silently reciting the Daoist scriptures at her desk, yet her mind kept wandering. When Zhezhu returned, there were still only a few characters written on her paper.

His thick dark hair hung loose, droplets of water falling from it. He lifted the curtain and saw her holding her brush. His brow creased faintly. Without saying anything, he let the curtain fall and went straight to his couch.

“Zhezhu.”

Shang Rong rose and followed him to his bedside.

“What is wrong with you?”

She saw the boy sit on the couch. Just moments ago he had given her sugar cakes, yet now he did not even acknowledge her.

“You keep your promises so faithfully,” Zhezhu lifted his eyes slightly, his voice calm, “I suppose before long you will finish silently copying that final volume for me.”

“Are you unhappy?”

Shang Rong looked at his face but could not discern anything.

“I am happy,” he replied lazily.

“I…” Shang Rong heard him say this, her eyes lowering halfway. For some reason her heart felt a little stifled. After a long pause, clutching the edge of her skirt, she said, “I do not remember the Qingni Book as well as the Taiqing Collection. If you are not in a hurry for it, I… may be a little slower.”

She had lied. At this moment, she was so uneasy she did not dare look into his eyes.

But why had she lied?

“In that case, it truly cannot be rushed.”

Zhezhu nodded. Night rain poured ceaselessly into his ears. His eyes curved slightly, his gaze falling on the pot of blue mountain flowers by the window. “You do not like it?”

“I like it the most,” Shang Rong shook her head and followed his gaze to the small pot of flowers. “So, Zhezhu, I want to place it somewhere you can see it at a glance.”

As she spoke, she crouched down, her skirt falling to the ground, her hand gently touching one of the unopened buds.

“Why?”

The boy’s damp black hair made his pale skin appear even fairer. The thoughts hidden deep within his heart were like the curtain stirred by the wind, rippling and swaying with faint undulations.

He simply could not bear to hear the word “like” from her lips.

The moment he heard it, his ears grew warm.

If only she liked him.

“I want to share with you. Aside from Sister Danshuang, only you care about what I like, only you listen seriously to what I say,” Shang Rong looked up at him. Droplets from his dark hair fell onto the back of her hand, inexplicably making her heart tremble. “Zhezhu, is there anything you want? I want to give you something too.”

The boy’s fingers unconsciously clenched the edge of the brocade quilt on the couch. He could hardly remain calm under her gaze like this. He averted his eyes, and they fell once more upon that pot of pale blue mountain flowers.

“You said you want to see it every day,”

After an unknown length of time, he finally found his voice. “Then tell me,” He looked at her again. In the warm yellow light, his eyes flickered with fine, shifting glimmers.

Why were some words so difficult to say aloud?

His thin lips pressed together, his jaw taut.

“What?” Shang Rong looked at him, waiting.

“Do you want to see me every day?”

His voice was wrapped in the night rain, yet more pleasant than the rain itself.

Another drop of water fell from the ends of his hair onto the back of her hand. Shang Rong blinked once, the heart in her chest pounding uncontrollably fast.

She lowered her head, avoiding his gaze.

A nearby window was blown open, slanted rain striking the floor like scattered beads. Shang Rong seemed not to notice. She only saw the boy’s snow-white sleeve stir slightly as he was about to stand, and suddenly she reached out and grasped his wrist.

The wind and rain grew fiercer. She raised her head to look at him, the words leaving her mouth without thought:

“Want.”