The scroll came in the early hours, its seal bearing the emblem of Emperor
Zhao Wen. It was short and formal, yet held the weight of something deeply
personal:
> You have my blessing. Let the past see light.
—Zhao Wen
Ju Xian folded the letter with care. The sun had not yet risen, but already the
air was warm with desert winds. She packed lightly and woke Taotao, who
groaned at first, then fell quiet when he saw her expression.
They rode for Linhua in quiet determination. The desert stretched for miles,
its golden plains unchanging. Sky, older now, rested more often, but sat
quietly between them, occasionally peering out from the shade.
No words were spoken for long stretches — just the sound of wooden wheels
on dry earth, and the rhythm of two people who had once died and found
themselves alive again.
When Linhua came into view, Ju Xian felt her chest tighten. The gates of her
old family estate loomed ahead, unchanged by time. The same stone walls,
the same iron lanterns on either side of the door. Only the people had aged.
Servants opened the gate. None dared speak.
Inside, the hall remained meticulously arranged — elegant, cold, restrained.
Her father sat straight-backed at the head. Her mother beside him, her
hands folded in her lap. Her elder cousin stood near the far pillar, arms
crossed in formal respect.
Ju Xian stepped inside slowly, Taotao behind her, Sky nestled silently in his
travel perch.
> "Ju Xian," her father said, rising. "It has… been long."
> "Yes," she said gently. "Long enough for truths to settle."
Her voice was soft but clear — not accusing, not emotional, only steady. Her
mother's eyes flickered to Sky, recognition softening her composure.
> "He was with you, wasn't he?" her mother asked.
Her cousin took a step forward, carefully.
> "You must understand… at the time, we believed marrying you upward
would strengthen the family. We—"
> "I do understand," Ju Xian said, cutting gently but without heat. "And I am
not here to accuse. I came because I carry no hatred. Only memory."
Her father's gaze faltered.
> "We heard… you fought in the war. That you saved soldiers. That you—"
> "Did what I had to," she said. "Like any daughter of Linhua should."
He nodded slowly, eyes filled with something between regret and pride.
> "The man we once planned for you," he added, quieter now, "has long
since faded into insignificance. Emperor Wen will see to these matters now."
Ju Xian inclined her head. "I trust him."
There was a stillness in the room that was almost reverent.
Sky ruffled his feathers slightly, as though breaking the tension. Taotao
remained at the door, arms folded, watching silently.
> "I ask nothing of you," Ju Xian said at last. "Only that you remember I
lived — truly lived — beyond these walls."
She gave a respectful bow.
Her mother stood slowly, as if moved to reach out, but stopped herself.
> "Will you return again?" her voice barely above a whisper.
Ju Xian met her eyes. "Perhaps. When the plum trees bloom again."
And with that, she turned and walked into the morning light.
Outside, Taotao raised an eyebrow.
> "That was very... noble of you."
> "I didn't come to reopen old wounds," she said. "Only to close them."
Sky made a soft trill.
> "Even the bird agrees," Taotao muttered. "That's dangerous."
They walked onward — not back into the past, but toward whatever waited
next.