Was this period of time a dream?
The bedding carried a faint smell of washing, but against my skin it felt like a thin veil, unreal. I stared at the dark patterns on the canopy ceiling, my fingertips unconsciously tracing the peach blossom handkerchief given to me by Consort Rong—the stitches on the handkerchief were fine, but the parts I touched always felt lacking the roughness that fabric should have, more like the lightness of fingertips brushing against the air.
The fragmented doubts from the day now surged up like a tide in the night, keeping me awake. I turned over, my back against the cool bed, but the familiar dull pain was gone. Yet the lingering memory of that pain remained—the last time I was struck by the eunuch's wooden stick, I could clearly feel the splinter scraping against the fabric, but when Consort Su changed my dressing, the skin at the wound was smooth as if it had never been injured. And the note Qin Lan brought today, Consort Hui's handwriting was hurried, but the ink on the paper didn't smudge at all, as if it had just dried after being written, even the creases made by her fingertips seemed deliberate.
I sat up and, by the moonlight streaming in through the window, touched my forehead—there should have been a faint scar there, a result of a fall from the climbing frame years ago, the edges of which were still slightly raised. But now, the skin my fingertips touched was smooth and flat, without a trace. My heart sank, and I touched my wrist—the crescent-shaped scar from shrapnel wounds during a mission was also gone without a trace.
“Tian Zhao’s body…” I muttered to myself, suddenly recalling the doubts I had when I first transmigrated. Tian Zhao was a sixteen-year-old palace maid, frail and thin, yet when I first woke up, she could easily lift a bamboo basket full of herbs, and even displayed special forces combat skills when fighting against eunuchs—this was not the strength and reflexes a weak palace maid should possess. And then there was Ya Huan, who always said, “We used to weave grass worms together,” but my memories of “the past” were all fragmented images, without any coherent plot, as if someone had forcibly inserted them into my mind.
I walked to the table and picked up the porcelain bottle of calming incense pills that Consort Su had brought during the day. She had clearly said during the day that it was a fever reducer, but later I remembered that the label on the bottle said "calming pills"—at the time I thought I had misremembered, but now that I think about it, Consort Su was an old servant in the palace, and her knowledge of medicinal herbs was better than anyone else's. How could she have mistaken calming pills for a fever reducer? What's even stranger is that the "fever reducer" actually relieved my pain and dizziness, which is completely illogical, unless... the pain itself was fake.
The wind outside grew stronger, making the windowpanes creak and groan. It even reminded me of the beeping of a heart monitor; the two sounds intertwined, growing clearer with each passing moment. I thought of the winter plum blossoms in Consort Xian's courtyard. When the fallen petals were collected and pickled, I clearly smelled their delicate fragrance. But upon reflection, the aroma didn't intensify with the pickling process; instead, it remained as fresh as when they were first picked, as if frozen in a moment. And then there was Consort Li's pipa. The strings were clearly newly replaced, yet the sound it produced carried the hoarseness of old strings, like a repetitive, fixed melody.
I opened the door and walked to the small peach tree in the corner of the yard. During the day, the buds on the branches were plump, as if they would bloom at any moment. But now, the size and position of those buds were exactly the same as three days ago, without the slightest change. I reached out and touched them; the buds felt hard and stiff, lacking any of the resilience that a plant should have, more like artificial flowers made of wax.
“All of this…” I leaned against the peach tree, the coolness of the trunk on my back bringing me back to my senses. The cruelty of the inner palace was real—the harassment from the laundry maids, the punishments from the laundry department, the suppression from the Empress. But these cruelties were always resolved at crucial moments: the majesty of the Consort Xian, the token of Consort Hui, the composure of Consort Su. It was as if someone was deliberately maintaining the “warmth” in the cold palace, preventing this beauty from being completely shattered.
I remembered the ruins in my dream, and the figure in camouflage, the scar on his forehead exactly the same as mine now. Could it be… I never actually time-traveled? Tian Zhao, Consort Xian, Consort Su, Consort Rong, Consort Li, Ya Huan… These people, these events, were all just a dream?
The wind whipped up fallen leaves, circling the peach tree before drifting towards the palace walls. I looked up at the walls; their vermilion surfaces gleamed coldly in the moonlight, the tiles atop them arranged neatly, none loosened by wind or rain. Suddenly, I understood why life in the Cold Palace was both warm and cruel, both real and illusory—because my subconscious was weaving a dream, a dream of "redemption." I longed to escape the despair of the ruins, so I created the warmth of the Cold Palace; I couldn't forget the cruelty of the battlefield, so I incorporated the struggles of the harem into it.
I went back to my room, lay down on the bed, still clutching the peach blossom handkerchief in my hand. The ticking of the window grew louder and louder, almost drowning out the wind. I knew this dream was about to end, but I couldn't bear to leave—I couldn't bear to leave behind the gentleness of the Consort Xian, the composure of Consort Su, the shyness of Consort Rong, the steadfastness of Consort Li, and the liveliness of Ya Huan. These people, these events, though a dream, had given me a warmth and sense of belonging I had never felt before.
I closed my eyes, letting myself immerse myself in this dream. Even if I wake up tomorrow to find ruins and pain, I will remember that on a cold winter night, a group of people in the desolate palace gave me a moment of warmth in their own way.
Moonlight streamed through the window paper, falling onto the peach blossom handkerchief. The embroidered amulet glowed faintly in the moonlight, as if guarding this dream that was about to shatter.
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