Dawn had not yet broken.
The air of the festival had not dispersed, and Youzhen still lay wrapped in a thin veil of mist. The flagstones at the street corners gleamed with the dampness of last night's rain.
In the back courtyard of the rice shop, smoke rose faintly from the stove. The fragrance of sticky rice porridge mingled with the tang of firewood, quietly filling the eaves and courtyard.
In the main hall, Bihua sat at the table, holding a gray-blue travel bag. Her fingers smoothed its creases inch by inch, as though it was not a bundle of belongings but the farewell to an entire decade.
She lifted her eyes to the familiar furnishings. The old bronze mirror in the corner reflected her hesitation and calm. On the square table by the wall lay the sachet and handkerchief folded last night, their edges worn white, embroidered by her own hand with orchids.
Footsteps sounded from the side room. Layne was already awake.
He tumbled out, shoes half on, chewing a dried fruit as he stuffed sweet cakes, dates, and a bamboo pinwheel into his little satchel.
"Mom, can we leave early? I want to get to Qingzhou quickly and buy one of those paper birds that flap on their own!"
Bihua said nothing, only bent to straighten his collar and smooth his unruly fringe.
Layne chattered on, planning aloud: "Is Qingzhou really big? Do they have towers taller than our town's gate tower? And the river there—is it wider than the Ling River?"
She only hummed in reply, her thoughts far away.
Layne didn't know she had barely slept. All night, moonlight traced shadows on the window. She had lain awake on the bed, listening as Lai Su walked circle after circle outside, his steps only falling silent as dawn approached.
A rooster's crow broke the stillness.
Bihua rose, tied her bag tightly, packed pastries and a water flask into the basket. Out in the shop, Lai Su sat poring over the accounts, slow, repetitive. He had not returned to bed. Morning light slanted through the shutters, rendering his face all the more composed.
She led Layne across the courtyard, down the mossy brick steps beneath the eaves. On the drying rack hung damp clothes from yesterday, the breeze stirring their sleeves and brushing across Layne's cheek.
He glanced back at the old hen pecking the ground, waved cheerfully.
"Goodbye, silly hen! I'll be back after I've had fun in Qingzhou!"
Bihua smiled faintly, but said nothing.
At the shop front, Lai Su sat behind the counter, an open ledger before him, pen untouched. Hearing footsteps, he raised his head toward the doorway, but made no sound.
Bihua paused at the threshold, met his gaze, and asked quietly, "Truly not coming with us?"
He was silent a moment. "No. With too many people, the road only grows harder."
His tone was steady as ever, yet there was a shadow in his eyes.
Bihua nodded softly, without pressing. She lowered her head, tightened her hold on Layne, and stepped across the threshold.
She looked back once, at the place where she had lived ten years.
The old tree in the courtyard had sprouted new buds. The storeroom's rusty lock still hung. Frost clung to the water jar in the yard. In the corner, the herb plant grew quietly. Every step she had once taken, countless times, now felt as though it would be left behind forever.
Drawing a deep breath, she turned away, pressing down the unease in her chest. Layne noticed nothing unusual about his mother this morning.
Their figures vanished into the mist. The door closed with a dull thud, silence reclaiming the house.
Lai Su still sat there, tracing empty lines on the ledger. At last he reached for a wooden box, opened its false bottom. Inside lay an old copper token, a broken pen shaft, and a yellowed slip of paper. He stared at them for a long while, until the pen trembled faintly in his fingers.
At the end of the street, the fog was thinning. Sunlight gleamed on the stone road, dust from a fresh sweeping still drifting.
The town was waking.
At the porridge stall, smoke rose. The smell was warm, familiar. Layne darted ahead, calling brightly, "Good morning, Granny Li!"
The old woman looked up. Seeing his little satchel and Bihua's basket, she laughed. "Out so early? Don't tell me you're off causing trouble again."
"We're going to Qingzhou!" Layne grinned. "Mom says it's full of fun!"
Bihua nodded politely. "We'll bring you sweets when we return."
"Then I'll be waiting," Granny Li said, ladling porridge. But her smile faltered slightly as she watched their backs fade away.
Further ahead, the grocer Old Wang was just opening his shop. He looked up at them, wiped his brow.
"Heading out?"
"To Qingzhou," Bihua replied. "The festival's over—we'll let the child see something new."
"Good," Old Wang nodded. "Qingzhou's bustling. He'll like it."
At the yamen, the kingdom's black-and-red flag lifted in the morning wind. Wang Cheng, the clerk, stepped out. A friend of Lai Su's, he quickened his steps toward Bihua, frowning.
"Madam Lai, where are you headed today?"
"To Qingzhou."
He pressed his lips together, hesitated, then said in a low voice, "How has Old Lai been?"
"As always," she answered, surprised.
Wang Cheng lowered his voice further. "There are men in Qingzhou these days… When you're done, come back early. If anything happens here in town, it's better you're near."
With that, he bowed and returned inside.
Bihua stood in place, unease blooming in her chest. Was Lai Su hiding something far more serious?
But Layne had already run ahead to the wagon waiting at the street corner, peering curiously.
The driver, a wiry old man in a bamboo hat, shouted, "To Qingzhou! Leaving in a quarter hour when full!"
Inside the carriage sat a bearded woodcutter with a child clutching oil-paper umbrellas, and a neatly dressed cloth merchant jotting notes.
"Mom, where do we sit?" Layne called.
"By the window," Bihua said softly.
Just as they were boarding, an old man with a basket stopped short. "Madam Lai? Out of town today?"
"Yes, on a journey," she replied.
The old man chuckled, then added, "Strange—heard the yamen summoned quite a few folks this morning. Asking questions."
The words pierced her like needles.
Her grip on the bag strap nearly broke it. She glanced toward the distant yamen flag fluttering in the wind. The rice shop, lost behind mist, seemed already unreachable.
For a moment, she longed to look back at Lai Su—but she knew, if she turned, she might never go forward again.
"Mom, hurry!" Layne's smiling face popped out of the carriage.
Steeling herself, she climbed in, sat beside him.
The driver snapped the reins. "Off we go!"
The wheels creaked over stone. Behind them, the scents of home—cooking smoke, the hen's cluck, the rustle of ledgers—were left behind.
Wind slipped through the carriage curtains, lifting her hair. It felt cold.
The wagon rattled westward along the official road, willows swaying. New grass sprouted amid yellow stalks. Canals trickled beside the road, reflecting drifting clouds.
Layne's eyes shone. He pressed against the window, chattering: ducks on the river, kites in the sky, the flower in a woman's hair. Laughter rippled inside the carriage.
Bihua smiled faintly, answering him softly, but her eyes never truly saw the scenery. Her fingers rubbed her knees again and again.
She remembered the note Lai Su had shown her: Old debts unpaid. Tread carefully.
For ten years he had been steady, restrained, never burdening her with worry. But the voices in town that morning stirred old doubts.
She recalled the first time she met him in Qixia City, when she was the courtesan of the Perfumed Pavilion. He was a weary, disillusioned young official, drinking cup after cup, speaking bitterly of duty and cold human hearts. She had thought him honest, not vile, different from the others. Later, he ransomed her freedom, claiming the money came from relatives and family savings. She hadn't dared ask further. She had only wanted to believe.
That belief had lasted ten years. In those ten years, no letters, no kin, no mention of relatives.
A chill ran down her spine.
The carriage jolted gently. The merchant and the woodcutter chatted of Qingzhou's lantern fair, inns already full. The child dozed against his father.
Suddenly Bihua spoke: "Driver."
He grunted, "What is it?"
"We won't go to Qingzhou." Her voice was calm, firm. "Stop the cart."
"What?!" He nearly dropped the reins. "We're almost there. Why stop now?"
"I have urgent business. Just pull aside. We'll get down."
"Then you'll need to hire again. Best to reach Qingzhou, then find another wagon back—"
"Too late," she cut him off, gaze unwavering.
Muttering, he reined in the horses.
The curtain lifted. Early spring wind rushed in.
Bihua gripped her bag, clasped Layne's hand, and stepped down. The boy blinked in confusion.
"Mom, aren't we going to Qingzhou?"
She looked into his eyes, steady, resolute. "We're going home."
"Your father… is still there."
Layne froze.
Kneeling to face him, she said with quiet, immovable strength, sealing the moment into fate:
"Layne—we're going back to save your father."