Madam Zhou awoke from her sleep, staring blankly at the canopy above her. She placed her hand over her chest where her heart thumped wildly, full of joy.
She slowly sat up; the silk-cotton quilt slid off her. Her face flushed, Madam Zhou gently bit her lower lip.
After so many years, when she thought her heart had become still like stagnant water, she had dreamt of that man once again, dreamt of the year they met.
That year, she was merely a young girl, just reaching the age of maturity. Having read many storybooks, she had a naive understanding of the affairs between men and women and harbored unknown yearnings.
But she also knew that those affairs described in the storybooks were meant for the sons and daughters of noble families, not for a girl from a scholar's family. How could she dare to hope for such?
Yet, which young girl does not harbor the stirrings of spring, not daring to hope, but still unable to stop dreaming?
