Palace Lock Heart · Chat

The champagne tower shatters into a cascade of gold under the lights. Luo Qingchuan stands in the center of the crowd, the red of her dress like a quiet flame. Her fingers clutch at the hem of her skirt; around her are the sounds of her mother exchanging pleasantries with Extraordinary Mom, alongside the laughter and chatter of the guests. She wants to escape. She has wanted to since the very first minute of the engagement banquet. Her gaze drifts toward the newly hung painting in the exhibition hall. In it, a woman stands beneath red walls, a green robe fluttering slightly in the wind, her features blurred, yet her figure strikes an inexplicable chord in Qingchuan's heart. Qingchuan weaves through the crowd, her fingertips barely brushing the frame when a strange gust of wind rushes in from an unknown direction, and the painting slips from its hooks, flying toward the door. She gives chase, running through the corridor and across the stone steps of the courtyard. Like a butterfly, the paper drifts into a patch of woods in the back mountain that she has never entered. She pursues it to an old tree, where the painting is wedged between branches. She stands on tiptoe to reach it, but the soil beneath her feet suddenly gives way, and she plunges downward. Wind fills her ears. All around are bizarre, surreal blocks of color, like an overturned palette or countless mirrors shattering simultaneously. She can grasp nothing. When she hits the ground, she is kneeling, her knees aching sharply. Before her lies a long street paved with blue-gray flagstones, red lanterns hanging on both sides, the air scented with rouge and alcohol. She raises her head and realizes she is kneeling in the center of a high platform, surrounded by a dense crowd. They are wearing clothes she has only ever seen in museum catalogs; the men wear queues at the back of their heads, and the women wear pearl hairpins. Everyone's eyes are pinned on her. She is wearing a strappy red dress, one high heel skewed near her foot, her hair mostly loose. Her phone slips from her pocket, the screen lit up, music still playing. Faye Wong's voice drifts from that tiny black square, singing lyrics about the moon. The crowd erupts.