I remember I loved eating candied plums, and I always kept a small dish of them on my desk. The porcelain dish had my favorite blue and white floral pattern, and the rim was decorated with a light gold border.
They say, "Eat one when you're tired from studying; it's sweet and refreshing. Don't eat too many, or your teeth will ache and you'll cry."
On the day I passed away peacefully, the osmanthus flowers beside my bed were in full bloom, and delicate petals drifted in through the window cracks, landing on the back of my hand, slightly cool.
Like the warmth of her fingertips when she tucked me in back then.
The moment my consciousness left my body, I felt the moon's furry body gently brush against my fingertips, carrying its usual warmth.
Just like countless nights before, when it dozed off beside my hand, I felt safe and secure.
Even its breath carried a faint warmth, tickling my fingertips, and even my last shred of consciousness was enveloped in its temperature.
When I opened my eyes again, I was standing on a cloud staircase shimmering with soft light, with a flowing river of light beneath my feet, as if the starlight of countless worlds had been crushed together.
Particles of light clung to the hem of my clothes, like a layer of crushed diamonds, and I could hear the faint electronic communication: "Mission participant number 1996, identity verification passed, preliminary screening passed."
It is the system bureau it refers to.
When I passed through the illusionary mirror that tested my character, the mirror reflected the snow of the Cold Palace from years ago, and showed me huddled in a corner, trembling.
The cold wind in the illusion still carried the biting chill of yesteryear, making me instinctively shrink my neck, just like I did back then.
In the training ground where my muscles and bones were being honed, I held the familiar iron spear shaft. The weight of the shaft and the feel of the wood grain were exactly the same as the one she had given me.
Every move and stance revealed the techniques she had taught him back then. The arc of the spear shaft shaking when the force was released during the "returning spear" and the wind that the spear tip blew down were just like the ones she had demonstrated back then.
The examiner held my gun barrel, his fingertips brushing against the calluses on my palm, and unusually, he offered a word of praise.
"This technique of deflecting force with a counterattack has a solid foundation, it's reliable, and you haven't lost your skill. The person who taught you is an expert."
When faced with a difficult NPC during a test on "social skills," the NPC deliberately broke a teacup, pretending to be innocent, and said, "Can you afford to pay for this official kiln porcelain? Even selling yourself wouldn't be enough."
I am reminded of what the Regent taught me: "Be gentle yet firm, neither humble nor arrogant." I neither swallowed my pride and let others manipulate me, nor did I become overbearing and lose my sense of proportion.
He simply pointed to the fragments on the ground and said, "The mark on the bottom of the cup is a Wanli period folk kiln imitation of Xuande. The shopkeeper has the same mark on the third shelf of his counter, priced at five taels of silver. I can afford to pay for it." He then passed the test without any trouble.
After three years of rigorous training, calluses similar to those from when I was practicing shooting have formed on my hands. The warmth of my palms carries the roughness of the gun barrel, and even the strength with which I hold a pen has become much more stable.
I finally became a formal mission participant, and a bluish-white jade pendant matching the pattern of the bright moon and silver bell appeared on my wrist.
It felt cool to the touch, as if it carried her warmth, as well as the lingering warmth she left in my palm.
Traveling through different worlds, I see the snow in the north covering the general's tent, the snowflakes rustling as they hit the yurt, like countless tiny feathers falling on it.
The strong liquor inside the tent was so hot it burned your heart; a sip could warm you up to your toes, and even your breath smelled of alcohol, mixed with the scent of snow outside.
It's just like the wine she drank with me when we watched the snow at the border back then.
Listen to the rain in Jiangnan wetting the roof of the awning boat. The rain threads weave a curtain, wrapping the sound of oars and drifting far away. The creaking of the oars is like telling a story.
The lotus lantern at the bow of the boat floated downstream toward the sky, its reflection shimmering on the water like scattered gold, intertwining with the boatwoman's soft Wu dialect, sweet as honey, like the candied plums she peeled for me back then.
Having tasted the sweetness of grapes from the Western Regions, the freshly picked fruit carries the warmth of the sandy soil, and the juice dripping onto the palm of the hand tastes of sunlight, even the fingertips are sweet.
One bite and the fruit bursts with juice, so sweet it makes your eyes squint, just like the chilled grape wine she left for me back then.
I've also tasted the salty coconut breeze of the island, the wind mingling with fishermen's songs as it swirls around the masts, and the splashing water when the fishing nets are pulled in carries the fresh scent of sea fish.
Even the air was damp, and the salty wind made people's hair fly wildly, just like the wind when she took me to practice shooting at the beach back then.
This kind of life, traveling all over the country and seeing all the hustle and bustle of life, has its own unique flavor, but it always feels like something is missing.
There's no longer a cup of perfectly warmed Longjing tea, and no longer a dark-skinned figure who would laugh when I chatted.
The plate of candied plums, with its gold-painted porcelain, is no longer there; and the person who would correct my marksmanship is gone.
Only occasionally, on a starry night.
For example, the moon in one world is like a silver dumpling, so bright that it can illuminate the osmanthus tree in the cloud shadows, and even the arc of the falling petals is as slow as during the Zhaoning era.
A gust of wind blows, and petals fall on my shoulder, just like the osmanthus blossoms she brushed away for me back then.
Or perhaps the evening breeze carries the sweet scent of osmanthus, making one's nose tremble, and even one's breath is enveloped in fragrance, like the scent of ink mixed with osmanthus in her study back then, which brought a sense of peace.
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