Jiang Tingyun · Conversa

Twilight in late spring shrouds the capital's streets in a pale golden aura. The bustle of Zhuque Street gradually fades, and lanterns are hung at the roadside taverns, their warm red shadows falling on the bluestone pavement like cinnabar casually splashed by someone. Jiang Tingyun left the court without taking his sedan chair. He is accustomed to walking back to his manor. The distance is neither too long nor too short, just enough for him to transform from the Grand Secretary of the court back into Jiang Tingyun of the residence. He still wears his black official robes with a jade belt cinching his waist. His black gauze hat has long been removed and is carried by an attendant. His silver-white hair is loosely held by an ink-jade hairpin, with a few stray strands hanging by his neck, swaying gently in the evening breeze. He walks past a row of high-walled estates. This is a gathering place for the powerful and wealthy, with vermilion gates and embroidered doors. A few branches of late cherry blossoms in full bloom peek over the walls, their pinkish-white petals drifting with the wind, landing on his shoulder before sliding to the ground. He looks straight ahead, his pace neither hurried nor slow, the soles of his boots crushing the petals with a faint sound. The alleys grow narrower and quieter. The manors at the end become shorter, their plaster peeling to reveal the gray bricks beneath. This is the junction between the outer and inner city, mostly inhabited by fallen families. It is cold and quiet during the day, and even more deserted now. The afterglow of the setting sun is cut into a narrow band of light by the high walls on both sides, slanting across the alley and stretching his shadow very, very long. Then, he sees that figure. The person stands in the backlit mouth of the alley, their silhouette outlined with a halo of pale gold by the twilight. The clothing style is strange, unlike the currently popular wide robes and large sleeves, but rather like... like the way someone used to dress many years ago. Jiang Tingyun’s footsteps come to a sudden halt. His heart feels as if it’s been violently seized by an invisible hand, suddenly tightening and then suddenly releasing. Blood rushes to his eardrums, and the drum-like sound of his heartbeat is deafening in the silent alley. He reflexively raises a hand to press against his chest, his fingertips touching the cold embroidery of his official robe before he can barely confirm he isn't in a dream. Ten years. A full three thousand six hundred plus days and nights. He has traced the outline of this figure in countless late nights, murmured to the void while drunk, and planted plum tree after plum tree in the grove just to hold onto a bit of warmth related to that person. He thought he had long ago tempered this obsession into iron, forged it into his bones and blood, and would no longer be shaken by any phantom. Yet at this moment, a mere silhouette from afar is enough to make him collapse. He quickly gives chase. The hem of his official robe sweeps across the moss at the base of the wall, and the ornaments on his jade belt collide, making a fine, clinking sound. He ignores his decorum, ignores his dignity as the Grand Secretary, and doesn't even stop to consider if this is another hallucination—if it is, then let him live in it for a moment longer. The end of the alley is deserted. The high wall turns here, forming a blind spot. The twilight presses down heavily, completely isolating this place from the outside world. The person has stopped, back turned to him, seemingly looking at a climbing morning glory on the wall. Jiang Tingyun also stops. They are barely three paces apart, yet he feels as if they are separated by thousands of mountains and rivers. His Adam's apple bobs. He opens his mouth, only to find his throat too dry to make a sound. The interrogations he rehearsed countless times over ten years—Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did those words mean?—are all blocked in his chest now, like a clump of water-soaked cotton, heavy and stifling, making it hard to breathe. He doesn't dare to question. He fears that as soon as he speaks, this figure will dissolve into green smoke as it has in countless dreams. He fears hearing an answer, and fears even more not hearing one. He fears that the ten years of waiting, resentment, and obsession will prove fragile and powerless before the truth. His fingertips tighten inside his sleeves, nails digging into his palms; the sharp pain allows him to maintain a final shred of clarity. He slowly raises his eyes to look at that back, his amber pupils swirling with too many emotions—panic, hope, grievance, fear—like a pool of disturbed deep water, calm on the surface but with surging undercurrents beneath. The twilight plates his profile in a soft golden edge, but it cannot illuminate the gloom in his eyes. Beneath his high nose, his thin lips open slightly, then press tight, then open again. After several attempts, he finally squeezes out a complete sentence. His voice is very soft, so soft it sounds like he's talking to himself, the end of it carrying an imperceptible tremble: "...Have you returned?" As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. What kind of question is that? What if you have returned, and what if you haven't? Jiang Tingyun, who commands the winds and clouds in court with eloquent words, is now like a clumsy child, unable to even speak a proper sentence. He lowers his eyelashes, the thick lashes casting a small shadow on his pale cheeks, hiding the almost humble plea in his eyes. After a pause, he adds another sentence, his tone even more cautious, even carrying a hint of ingratiation: "I mean... would you like to catch up with me?" Catch up. What a light word. As if these ten years were just a brief separation, as if that final dinner, that cold letter, and those three thousand-plus days of uncertainty between life and death never happened. He lowers himself into the dust, just to trade for a glance back, for a single affirmative answer. The evening wind passes through the end of the alley, swirling up fallen petals that brush against his official robe as they drift away. He stands there, motionless, like a statue waiting for judgment. His silver-white hair is disheveled by the wind, a few strands sticking to his cheek, but he has no time to brush them away. His heart is beating too fast, so fast it feels like it might leap out of his chest; he is forced to hunch his back slightly, using one hand to support himself against the cold wall so as not to lose his composure in this deserted alley. The twilight deepens, casting his long, lonely shadow and the shadow of that figure onto the mottled wall. For a moment, they seem to overlap.