So after Qianluo disappeared from the world, the first thing I did every morning was go to the Regent's Palace.
When the gatekeepers of the Prince's mansion saw me, their eyes were red-rimmed, but they didn't stop me.
He simply said in a low voice, "The princess is in the study and hasn't eaten all day. Please persuade her; if this continues, her health will collapse," his tone full of worry.
I know Su Jinyun is soft-hearted. Even if she gets teary-eyed and her voice trembles when she sees me, she won't really kick me out.
She knew that we were both people who missed Qianluo, people who were sustained by those fragmented memories, and people who were each other's only comfort.
Actually, I'm scared.
She was afraid that she wouldn't be able to bear the heart-wrenching pain, that she might do something foolish because of Qianluo's belongings, which was definitely not what Qianluo wanted to see.
Before she died, Qianlu always said, "Only by living can we have hope and see better days." She protected Chengxiao and us with her life.
I must protect Su Jinyun, protect their former home, and protect this prosperous era that she bought with her life.
We cannot let her hard work go to waste, we cannot let her worry about us even in the afterlife, we cannot let all her efforts come to naught.
Of course, there was also a bit of personal motive involved.
Staying by Su Jinyun's side always allows you to touch more of Qianluo's belongings from her lifetime.
The plain cotton robe she often wore still had half a crabapple blossom embroidered by her on the hem; the stitches were a little crooked, but it was embroidered by her own hand.
You can still smell some familiar scents that she often uses.
It's as if he's the one whose eyes light up when he smiles, whose eyes redden when he talks about his homeland, and whose whole body trembles when he holds a knife but never backs down.
The girl who was as gentle as a child when feeding the sparrows hasn't gone far; she's still with us.
They are still watching the flowers bloom and fade in Zhaoning, still listening to our heartfelt words, and still accompanying us through every spring and autumn.
On the day Qianluo's cenotaph was laid to rest, the sky was leaden gray and the clouds hung extremely low.
Even the wind was chillingly cold, stinging my face like needles, making it hard to open my eyes.
I stood before the tomb, gazing at the coffin, which contained only a few of her old clothes.
The corner of her plain cotton robe still had half an unfinished crabapple blossom embroidered on it, the stitches crooked and uneven. She had embroidered it during a break in the army camp years ago, and she had even jokingly said that she would give it to me as a "graduation gift".
Only two bamboo leaves were embroidered on the indigo handkerchief, with a small section of thread still sticking out. It was her clumsy work, which she persevered with even after pricking her finger when she first started learning embroidery.
And there was her favorite purple-tipped brush, its handle gleaming from being rubbed, the tip still damp with ink.
It was as if she was about to pick up a brush and paint the waves of the river on the rice paper.
These objects, once carried by her, stained with the blood of the battlefield and the fragrance of the Imperial Garden, are now eerily still, devoid of even a trace of warmth.
I was lost in thought, feeling as if my heart was being repeatedly cut by a dull knife, with one thought swirling around in my mind: such a good Qianluo should be able to live a peaceful and happy life until old age.
In the morning, I would brew a pot of pre-rain tea; in the afternoon, I would spread out Xuan paper under a tree to paint a picture of the Yangtze River; in the evening, I would sit side by side with Su Jinyun on the stone steps to watch the sunset and listen to the laughter of children in the alley.
How could she end up disappearing into the world? This ending is so cold and indifferent that it doesn't match her passion, her sincerity, or the tenderness she once tried her best to protect.
The pain surging in his eyes concealed a hidden possessiveness that even he himself was unaware of.
More than once in the dead of night, I've had the absurd thought that if I, instead of Su Jinyun, had been the one to offer her a clean handkerchief when she left a stain on her lips from a pasty bite...
If it were me, not Su Jinyun, who shielded her from the blade in that hunting forest.
If back then, when she stood on the throne, hesitating over who to choose to stand beside, I could have been braver and said, "I want to protect you."
Instead of just standing in the corner watching, wouldn't that have protected her? Wouldn't the outcome have been different?
But every time I think of this, I'm terrified by my own selfishness.
How could I possibly have such thoughts, desecrating the deep bond between her and Su Jinyun that had endured life and death?
They supported each other in the court and cared for each other on the battlefield. That tacit understanding and deep affection was something I could never interfere with.
Later, after countless nights of staring blankly at the magnolia tree, I finally understood.
This is not Su Jinyun's fault; it is the path that Qianluo chose herself.
From the moment she was born with memories of her past life, from the moment she picked up her scimitar and swore an oath to the mountains and rivers of Tianxuan to "protect the peace of her homeland," she could not turn back even a step.
Her fate was already tied to "family and country", "protection" and "people", and she couldn't even control it herself.
She would rather bleed herself than let those behind her suffer; she would rather endure misunderstanding than let the enemy's plot be exposed.
And what about Su Jinyun? She lost the love of her life, the person she was meant to grow old with and see the world be safe and sound together.
I once passed by the Prince's Mansion late at night and saw her sitting by the window, holding Qianluo's pillow in her arms, silently shedding tears until dawn.
The loneliness in that silhouette was colder than the snow on a cold night.
The pain in her heart is only deeper and heavier than mine, heavy enough to crush a person. How can I possibly resent her?
He waited in a daze until the burial was over. The mourners gradually dispersed, and the ashes of the paper money were swept by the wind and fell on the grass in front of the tombstone.
Like a thin layer of snow, it was quickly blown away by the wind, leaving no trace.
Only Su Jinyun and I remained at the grave. She was wearing a plain long gown, her hair was mostly white, and her back was much more hunched than before.
His finger joints were somewhat deformed from holding a pen for many years, but he still stubbornly held onto the tombstone, his fingertips repeatedly stroking the three characters "Qin Qianluo".
Even his lips were trembling slightly, as if he were whispering something to her.
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