Where my heart finds peace
The morning light in Lingnan always seems to arrive earlier than in Chang'an. Wen Tingyun was already awake when the first birdsong pierced through the thin mist.
He lay on his side, not getting up immediately, but simply gazing quietly at the person beside him. Xuanji was still asleep, her long hair spread out like ink on the bamboo pillow, her breathing shallow.
The gentle, moist soil of Lingnan, like the most patient craftsman, is slowly smoothing away the melancholy and weariness that have accumulated between her brows. He gently reaches out to tuck the corner of the thin quilt that has slipped down, his fingertips brushing against her cheek unintentionally, the touch warm and gentle, carrying a real vitality.
This was completely different from the cold and fragile touch he had felt outside the prison of the Capital Prefecture. The breath that had been hanging in his heart ever since he went north to pick her up finally settled back into his chest.
He rose silently, put on a worn-out hempen outer garment, and strolled into the small kitchen, where the fire in the stove had just been lit. He waved his hand to dismiss the servants, rolled up his sleeves, and personally scooped out two spoonfuls of Lingnan rice that had been soaked the night before from the earthenware pot, adding a few red dates and a handful of water chestnuts.
He knew that Xuanji had a weak stomach, and the refined cuisine of Chang'an was not as nourishing as the light porridge of Lingnan. The firelight reflected his focused profile, and the porridge bubbled gently in the earthenware pot, the aroma of rice and dates gradually blending together, creating a simple and warm atmosphere in the room.
Xuanji woke up amidst this warm, homey atmosphere. The lingering warmth beside her and the indentation in the pillow reminded her that she was not alone. She got up, opened the window, and a moist breeze carrying the scent of plants immediately rushed in.
After breakfast, it was often time for the two of them to immerse themselves in their studies.
Wen Tingyun occupied the window seat in the study, his manuscript of "A Record of the Scenery of Lingnan" spread out before him. Xuanji, on the other hand, preferred to spread out paper and pen on the stone table under the banyan tree. The scenery of Lingnan was vastly different from that of the Central Plains, inspiring her poetic inspiration. She wrote, "Banyan tendrils hang to the ground, their green branches uneven; banana leaves sway in the wind, their shadows shifting." Occasionally, she would encounter obstacles, and when she looked up, her gaze would inadvertently sweep across the study window, always meeting his encouraging and understanding eyes as he looked up.
That morning, the sudden rain had just stopped, and the summer heat had temporarily subsided. The banana leaves outside the window were washed a vibrant green by the rain, and glistening dewdrops rolled on them. Xuanji was combing her hair by the window, her long, black hair cascading down like a waterfall. Wen Tingyun sat on a bamboo couch not far away, reading a book, but his gaze was frequently drawn to her.
She looked up at herself in the mirror and seemed to think that her eyebrows were a little light in color, so she gently opened her makeup box, took out a piece of blue ink, and carefully outlined them.
The morning light illuminated her focused profile, making it shimmer and glow. She seemed to sense his gaze, turned her head slightly, and smiled at him, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. In that instant, the small golden hairpin in her hair swayed gently, and the radiance in her eyes was even more dazzling than the jewels on the comb.
Wen Tingyun felt as if something had struck his heart hard. The vibrant scene before him perfectly overlapped with a vague yet classic image deep within his heart.
He put down his book, strode to his desk, spread out the Xuan paper, ground the ink, and began to write. Almost without thinking, a poem, "Bodhisattva's Charm," flowed from his brush:
Small hills rise and fall, their golden light shimmering; her hair, like clouds, seems to brush against her snowy cheeks. She rises lazily to paint her eyebrows, her makeup and dressing taking her time.
The mirror reflects the flowers before and after, their beauty mirrored in each other. A new embroidered silk robe is adorned with a pair of golden partridges.
Xuanji finished combing her hair, walked over, and stood beside him, looking down at the manuscript. At first, she thought he was reciting an old work, but upon closer inspection, the words were clearly freshly written. Her gaze lingered on "two golden partridges" for a moment, her cheeks slightly flushed. She reached out a finger and gently touched the line "her hair, like clouds, brushed against her fragrant, snowy cheeks," her voice carrying a hint of barely perceptible coquettishness: "Sir, the word 'brushed against' is used rather frivolously."
Xuanji seems to have reverted to her childhood mischievousness lately, always calling him "sir." Gradually, he stopped being so fixated on her way of addressing him, and instead saw it as a playful gesture between them.
Wen Tingyun put down his pen, reached out and pulled her into his arms, gently nuzzling the top of her head with his chin, and chuckled, "If you hadn't personally witnessed the state of 'her hair like clouds about to drift across the sky,' how could you have written such a line? It's just a realistic description, how can it be frivolous?"
The intimacy in his words made Xuanji's ears turn even redder, yet her heart felt as sweet as honey. She understood that what flowed from his pen was no longer an unattainable aesthetic image, but rather the real, vibrant, and tangible daily life and affection between them. Because of her presence, this poem, "Bodhisattva's Charm," transformed from exquisite literature into a testament to their love.
“Feiqing, do you know,” she whispered, “that I also wrote a poem for you. On that winter night at Xianyi Temple.”
Wen Tingyun was slightly taken aback, looked down at her, and his eyes revealed surprise and inquiry. He had never heard her mention this before.
"At that time... I had just gone through what happened to Sister Qianqian, and then I completely broke off with Li Yi. My heart was ice-cold." Her voice lowered, as if she had returned to that lonely night with the flickering lamp, "Listening to the howling north wind and looking at the drizzle outside the window, all I could think about was you."
His heart tightened, and he held her even tighter, as if trying to dispel the chill that memory had brought her.
“I write about sleepless nights, about the sorrowful wind blowing through fallen leaves, about the moon sinking behind the gauze window… I also write about ‘the rise and fall of fortunes reveal the true nature of the heart,’ and ‘the chirping of sparrows echoes in the empty forest at dusk.’”
Wen Tingyun listened silently, and she could feel the vibrations in his chest. These images were so familiar to him; they were a reflection of their shared experiences.
“At that time, I originally wanted to title the poem ‘Sending My Thoughts to Fei Qing on a Winter Night.’” As she finished speaking, she felt his body stiffen instantly, followed by an even deeper embrace.
“But in the end,” she paused, a hint of bitterness in her voice, “she wrote the words ‘Untitled’.”
“Untitled…” he repeated the two words, his voice hoarse, “Youwei, my Youwei…”
He lowered his head and sealed away all the regrets and bitterness of the past with a kiss that he cherished dearly and with a sense of compensation.
“From now on,” he breathed on her lips, promising, “every poem you write can have a title. And I will be your faithful reader and your eternal home.”
Xuanji closed her eyes and responded to his kiss. The wandering soul in her heart finally found peace.
As dusk fell, they went out for a walk together, as usual.
Strolling along the path behind the house, banana trees stretched out beside the stream. He would point to some unusual plant and tell her its local name, and she would curiously inquire about its habits. Occasionally, they would encounter farmers returning home with their hoes, and he would greet them in heavily accented Mandarin, calling them "Mr. Wen" and "Madam Wen." At first, hearing people address them like that would make Xuanji's ears burn slightly, but now she could respond with a calm smile.
As night falls, the courtyard is enveloped in a profound tranquility.
Sometimes they would set up a bamboo couch in the courtyard, fan themselves with palm-leaf fans, watch the Milky Way gradually turn, and chat idly. On such nights, he would naturally reach out, take her fingertips in his hand, and gently pull her into his embrace. Xuanji would close her eyes, her hands clinging to him as if they were vines parasitizing him. Nourished by him, she blossomed into a beautiful flower.
Xuanji carefully put away the dried ink of "Bodhisattva's Charm," placing it alongside her treasured childhood poems with his red annotations. It was no longer just a famous poem, but a tender memory belonging to the two of them, one that could not be shared with outsiders. It was a place of peace for them, a place of both literature and love, found deep within the bustling city of Lingnan.
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