Night Ashes and Bamboo Marks

In the days that followed, she served him with even greater care and attention. Knowing that he was sensitive to heat, she would wipe the bamboo mat he often sat on with well water in advance to make it cool; knowing that reading took a toll on his mind, she would secretly add a refreshing herb, sweet flag, to the incense.

One morning, Xuan went to the study to tidy up as usual. The air still carried the lingering scent of ink from the previous night and the astringent taste of cold tea. She was about to put away the gray-blue robe that her husband often wore, which was draped over the back of the chair, when her fingertips suddenly touched something hard and strange.

By the light streaming in through the window, she could see clearly—there was a hole burned through her sleeve by a spark. The edges were charred and curled, about the size of a copper coin. It must have been because her husband was too close to the candlelight last night while proofreading books, and he didn't even notice the flames licking at the corner of his clothes.

Xuanji's heart skipped a beat, and she silently took the clothes back to her room. As she took out her sewing basket, she already had an idea in mind.

Seeing this, Shiliu stepped forward lightly, her gaze falling on the scorch mark, and said softly, "Miss, you are already very busy managing the household and studying. This embroidery is very hard on your eyes. Let me do it."

Xuanji gently shook her head, her fingertips tracing the scorched edge, her tone gentle yet brooking no argument: "I appreciate your kindness. But I want to sew up this scar myself." She looked up at Shiliu and smiled slightly: "It's getting late, you should go and rest."

Immediately, she retrieved a piece of fine, slightly dark blue silk from the trunk and carefully measured the shape of the hole by candlelight. Then, she took silver scissors and, according to her mental image, meticulously cut out a bamboo leaf—her master loved bamboo, and a clump of sparse bamboo grew outside his study. A bamboo leaf was the perfect complement.

She sat by the window, threading a needle with gentle, focused movements. The stitches moved meticulously along the edge of the leaf, both mending and embellishing. The pale green "bamboo leaf" was cleverly placed over the scorched mark, perfectly natural, as if it had always grown there. Each stitch was precise, each thread concealing the girl's unspoken emotions and admiration.

After mending it, she carefully smoothed and examined the garment. The damaged area seemed to have gained a touch of elegance and poetry, not appearing out of place, but rather adding to its charm.

The next day, Wen Tingyun put on this robe. At first, he didn't notice it until he got up in the afternoon to get a book. As he gently brushed his wide sleeves, his gaze happened to fall and he caught a glimpse of the green hue that had suddenly appeared on the cuffs.

He paused slightly, his fingers unconsciously tracing the bamboo leaf. The fabric felt smooth and silky, with subtly raised embroidery. He looked up, his gaze sweeping over Xuanji, who was quietly grinding ink not far away.

Xuanji seemed to sense something, his heart skipped a beat, and he hurriedly lowered his head, feeling his ears burning. He was afraid that his little trick would be seen through, or even... disliked.

However, she only heard her husband's usual calm voice instructing, "Youwei, thank you for your trouble. Bring the Zhaoming Anthology."

Xuanji looked up and saw that Wen Tingyun had once again buried himself in his book. The corner of the green bamboo was faintly visible in his clothes, concealing a secret she could not tell anyone. A slightly sweet, yet apprehensive, warmth quietly spread through her heart.

That night, the moonlight was like water. Xuanji lay on the bed, and in his drowsy state, he fell into a dream—

She saw herself in the bronze mirror, dressed as Madam Wen: her hair was neatly styled, and she wore a light-colored silk dress embroidered with a delicate plum blossom, just the one Madam Wen usually loved to wear.

Then, seeing Wen Tingyun walking in from outside the courtyard with a gentle smile, he softly called out, "Madam."

Xuanji was shocked. He turned around abruptly and found himself in Madam Wen's inner chamber, with no one else around. He was being addressed as "Madam." Wen Tingyun, on the other hand, had clear and gentle eyes and his manner was meticulous and considerate, seemingly unaware of anything amiss.

He took off his outer robe, walked to the table, poured her a cup of warm tea, and handed it to her: "The night was chilly, and you stood in the courtyard for a long time during the day. Be careful not to catch a cold."

Xuanji took it in a daze, the steam rising from the tea, making his heart tremble slightly.

Wen Tingyun sat down beside her, his voice gentle: "The students in the school are making a lot of noise today. Does Madam find it bothersome?"

She parted her lips slightly, but could not utter a word, and could only nod blankly.

Wen Tingyun smiled and said, "You have always preferred quiet. If you are not used to it, I will send someone to tell them not to make a fuss."

His tone was so considerate, as if no one else in the world was more worthy of his attention.

“Over the years, if it weren’t for your careful management of the household, how could I have been able to teach with peace of mind?”

He sighed softly, "When the weather clears up, our family will go to Qingjiang again. You love the lotus flowers in the lake the most; we can pick a branch to put in a vase this year."

At this point, his smile deepened, and he reached out to cover the back of her hand, gently stroking it: "Madam, I owe you so much."

Xuanji stared blankly at the slender hand she had stolen glances at countless times. Now, it was tenderly holding her delicate fingers in its palm, the burning heat sending a shiver down her spine. A sudden, sharp pain shot through her chest, yet she was lost in a daze, unable to breathe.

Wen Tingyun said softly, "It's late, let's get settled."

He bent down to unbutton her clothes, his movements practiced and natural, revealing an unintentional intimacy.

Xuanji felt a buzzing in his ears, and his whole being almost melted into this tenderness.

The lamplight flickered, and a soft crackling sound came from the bronze incense burner.

Wen Ting stretched out his arms and pulled her into his embrace. The fragrance of his clothes mingled with the warmth of the fire, instantly enveloping her. His embrace was broad and steady, as if it could protect her from wind and snow for the rest of her life.

Xuanji's breathing became erratic, and her heart pounded. She had never felt a man's presence so close before; the deep voice accompanied by the vibration of his chest sent shivers down her spine.

"lady……"

His lips brushed lightly against her temple.

She stood frozen like a stone statue, her mind blank.

Until he bent down and pressed her under the brocade quilt. Xuanji's eyelashes trembled, and her fingers instinctively gripped the edge of the quilt.

Such a situation was not uncommon. In the past, in the brothels, the sisters would peep at guests and concubines entwined in intimate moments, and privately laugh and tease them. She didn't understand much about it, only finding those scenes chaotic and shameful.

But when it all became real, a strange and burning longing welled up in her heart—she wished that this embrace and whispered call would belong to her forever.

Just as his clothes fell apart, a violent heart palpitation struck him.

"No--!"

She gasped in her sleep, then suddenly opened her eyes, drenched in cold sweat.

She was all alone on the bed; the candle had long since gone out, leaving only the cold moonlight shining through the window. Her hair was soaked with sweat, her chest heaving, and her hands gripped the corner of the blanket tightly, her knuckles white.

After a moment of silence, tears streamed down her face.

What she had been afraid to admit was now crystal clear—she had long harbored ulterior motives.

"How could this be...?"

Xuanji stepped off the bed barefoot, the cold stone slab making her shiver. She fumbled for the remaining candle on the table to light, its dim yellow light casting a flickering, solitary shadow on the wall.

She spread out a blank sheet of paper, picked up her brush, dipped it in ink, but the handwriting, like her current state of mind, was scattered and difficult to focus. "When Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva was practicing the profound Prajnaparamita..." She had only written one sentence when her wrist went limp.

She recalled the warmth of the person's closeness in her dream, the tenderness in his voice as he whispered "Madam," and the indulging she hadn't resisted at that moment.

The pen paused, staining the paper with ink. She stared blankly at the spreading ink, as if seeing her own heart, similarly stained. She hastily tore off the page, picked up her pen again, and wrote each word with effort.

“Shariputra, form is not different from emptiness, emptiness is not different from form…” The ink was once again blurred by tears, like her tangled emotions. As the words danced, they transformed into the rising steam of the longevity noodles that her teacher’s wife had specially cooked for her, into the palpitations in her heart when she stole glances at her teacher, and into the bittersweet torment she was experiencing at this moment.

That night, she didn't sleep a wink. As dawn broke, the candle wax on the table had long since dried, mingling with the still-wet ink, making it impossible to distinguish between spiritual practice and mere delusion.