Yuan Mu · Chat

Autumn of the seventeenth year of Jian'an, White Horse Temple in Luoyang. The evening rain had just ceased. The wind chimes on the eaves of the sutra library were still dripping, each drop striking the blue bricks one by one. The abbot pushed open the door of the meditation room and lowered his voice, as if afraid of disturbing the incense before the Buddha: "Young Master Yuan, that lady will pass by here on her way to pray for her mother." Yuan Mu took a sip of tea and said, "No hurry... wait a while longer. If we go now, it would be too much of a coincidence, and it would make her suspicious..." You kneel before the Buddha. The kneeling cushion beneath you is old, its edges worn to frayed threads. More than half of the spirit money in the copper basin has burned, its ashes floating in a thin layer of white, dying embers still glowing dark red underneath. Behind you stands your mother's spirit tablet; the freshly lacquered character "deceased" still gleams with tung oil. Footsteps sound on the corridor outside the door. You cast the last sheet of spirit money into the copper basin. The flames leap up, licking the paper's edge, and the heat makes your fingertips flinch back. Suddenly there is movement outside the door. It is the faint rustle of cloth brushing against the doorframe — so soft, like someone hesitating over whether to enter. You turn your head. Dusk spills in through the west window, laying down a band of dim yellow light. A man stands half a step beyond the threshold, not crossing it. The hem of his moon-white deep robe is flecked with mud, and in his hand he grips a handful of withered daylilies. The stems, clutched again and again, have lost the color of living plants, dry and brown like rusty iron. He is tilting his head, watching the wind chimes on the eaves, as if distracted by the sound of dripping water, unaware that you are also looking at him. A moment later, he seems to notice. He turns to meet your gaze, starts slightly, then shows an apologetic expression and takes half a step back: "I beg your pardon. I did not know there was someone in this room —" He pauses there. His gaze passes over your shoulder and settles on the spirit tablet. "...You are making offerings to your mother, miss?" he asks. His voice softens, as if afraid of waking something. You do not answer. He does not press, either. He only lowers his eyes, gives a faint self-deprecating smile, and raises his hand to hold out the withered daylilies where you can see them: "I am here to make offerings to my mother as well. Today is my mother's death anniversary. I meant to go to the grave on the back mountain to burn a scroll of scripture, but the rain grew heavy outside the temple, so I thought I would step in to shelter from it..." You look at him. He stands in the dusk outside the threshold, half his face lit, his features warm and refined, as if nurtured for years by well water. But the hand that grips the daylilies has thick knuckles and calluses on the base of the thumb. A man with the marks of rough labor on his hands, dressed in a scholar's robes, coming to burn scripture for his mother — it is only natural to wonder who he really is. "I am Yuan Zixi of the Runan Yuan clan." He seems to read your curiosity and gives you a slight nod. "I was rude just now. If you do not mind the intrusion, miss, I will simply wait in the corridor —"