I did not sleep.
I tried. Wei Zhengnan had, before we retired, suggested the practical wisdom of sleeping, and I had agreed with the practical wisdom, and I had lain in the dark for a long time being quietly awake while the city outside the window made its nighttime sounds.
At some point I gave up the pretense and went to the study.
The crane lantern was still lit. I had not extinguished it in weeks — had been keeping it lit as a private commitment, a small act of continuity that I intended to maintain until the outcome was settled. I sat in front of it and thought about nothing in particular, which was a skill I had been working on for years: the ability to let the mind be still without forcing it.
At the second hour, Wei Zhengnan appeared.
He was not surprised to find me there. He looked at me for a moment and then sat down in his usual chair and picked up his usual cup and said nothing, which was the right thing to do.
