Back then, my elder brother loved to laugh. When he laughed, the corners of his eyes would curve into crescent moons, revealing two shallow dimples.
Like the white jasmine that blooms in the Imperial Garden in early March, its petals still glistening with morning dew, clean and fresh.
When the first peach blossom of spring is in full bloom, he will lift the hem of his plain brocade robe.
At that time, he had not yet come of age and often wore such refreshing clothes with small orchids embroidered on the collar. His mother had the embroiderers use the newly tribute silk thread from Jiangnan to embroider it.
She ran to my study in the morning dew, not caring that the tips of her shoes were covered in mud, and her trouser legs were half wet, but she held up a flower branch and smiled brightly.
“My dear sister, look, the petals of this branch are pinkish-white, with a touch of light red at the edges.”
Like the way you smiled yesterday when you were eating candied fruit, your cheeks were flushed, as if you'd secretly drunk some of the fruit wine Father Emperor hid in the Imperial Study.
Dewdrops from the petals rolled onto the rice paper, spreading out small damp marks. He wasn't flustered; instead, he reached out and poked the damp marks.
"Look, doesn't this look like the tears you shed when you fell and cried last time?"
I was so angry I wanted to hit him, but he just laughed and hid behind his desk. Sunlight streamed through the window and fell on his hair like scattered gold dust, even his eyelashes were shimmering.
The light made my eyes go weak, and I couldn't bring myself to put the ruler down.
In winter, when snow covers the steps, he would grab my hand and run to the courtyard. Snowflakes would get into our collars, making us stomp our feet in the cold, but we would still happily build a crooked snowman.
The snowman's head was round and plump, and its body was flat. It also took out a red paper nose from its sleeve and stuck it in, and plucked two dry grasses for eyebrows.
Finally, he pulled out two candied hawthorns covered in icing from his pocket, gave one to me, and hung the other on the snowman's hand.
"That way the snowman won't be lonely, and we'll get candy too—it's a win-win situation!"
The two of them laughed so hard they collapsed onto the snow, their noses red from the cold, their breaths mingling together like unbreakable cotton threads, weaving our shadows into one.
I couldn't tell which was him and which was me; I just felt that even the cold wind carried a sweet scent.
When he was thirteen, his father began to review memorials with him. His bright smile, like rice paper dampened by the morning mist, slowly turned into a somber, pale ink color.
He no longer chased after me to tell me the interesting story of "Zhu Zhiwu repelling the Qin army" from the book.
No longer saying, "Zhu Zhiwu was truly amazing. At his age, he could still persuade the Qin army to retreat with just his words. In the future, I also want to be such a wise person, so that I can protect the people's safety without resorting to weapons."
He no longer dragged me to see how many petals the peonies in the garden had opened, nor did he compete to see who could count the most petals, with the loser having to copy the Book of Songs ten times for the winner.
He used to always lose, but he copied with extra care, his handwriting even neater than his own homework.
He often sat alone in a corner of the imperial study, staring blankly at the mountain of memorials piled on the desk, his brows furrowed into small knots.
His fingers unconsciously rubbed the cover of the memorial, even his fingernails became slightly white from the friction.
Once, I passed by the Imperial Study and saw him lying on his desk through a crack in the window. Stray hairs fell down and covered his eyebrows and eyes, and he was holding a vermilion brush in his hand. He must have fallen asleep from exhaustion.
His father stood beside him, gently draping a cloak over his shoulders, his eyes filled with heartache, but he sighed softly and turned back to continue reviewing memorials.
Even I held up the kite I had just finished drawing and called to him, "Brother, let's go fly a kite! The wind is strong today, it will definitely fly very high, even higher than the one we flew in the Imperial Garden last time."
I even drew your favorite eagle pattern.
They would only respond slowly after a long while, their voices carrying an indescribable weariness, like old brocade covered in a layer of dust.
"Yuanhe, your brother still has memorials to review for Father. Why don't you go have some fun by yourself?"
Next time, next time your elder brother will definitely go with you, and he'll even take you to that place in the south of the city where you love the sugar-roasted chestnuts the most.
But that "next time" was like a promise blown away by the wind, never coming.
I later learned that half of the memorials on his desk were ones he had voluntarily shared the burden of with his father.
He always said, "Father is too tired; his hair has turned so white. If I do a little more, he can rest for a while."
But no one knew that those densely packed words, those political matters concerning the life and death of the people and the safety of the country, were gradually stealing the light from his eyes.
The change began with those strange words, like a fine needle that unexpectedly pierced the tacit understanding between us that had lasted for more than a decade.
Even those warm memories, like balloons punctured by needles, slowly deflated, leaving only a soft outer shell that hurts terribly at the slightest touch.
That day, I went to see him with my newly written policy essay on "light taxes and levies". The edges of the paper were wrinkled from handling it, and my fingertips were a little hot. I was also filled with some anticipation.
In the past, whenever I wrote policy essays, he would read them word by word, circle the awkward parts with a red pen, and point out where the logic was flawed and where the wording was imprecise.
At the end, she would smile and praise me, "My dear sister has improved again. Your writing on 'emphasizing agriculture and suppressing commerce' is much more insightful than last time. You will definitely be more capable than me in the future."
Perhaps my father will appoint you as my 'strategist'.
But he was leaning against a pillar, twirling a jade hairpin in his hand—it was the one he found for me under the plum tree in the Imperial Garden last year on my birthday, with a small plum blossom carved on the head.
The petals are engraved with fine lines, and a small pearl is embedded in the center of the flower, shimmering softly in the sunlight, just like the way he used to look at me.
He held up the jade hairpin, his eyes sparkling like they held stars: "When my sister smiles, her eyes curve like this plum blossom, delicate and spirited, a perfect match for you."
I searched for a long time before I finally found this one. The craftsman originally intended it for my mother, but I begged and pleaded with him for three days.
I promised to copy the Tao Te Ching for him ten times before I'd take it back, so you can't lose it.
This chapter is not finished yet. Please click on the next page to continue reading the exciting content!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
