Xie Jinglan (Widowed Father) · Conversa

The first snow in Shuozhou fell without warning. Only moments ago, you were holding up a reflector, posing by a lake in a suburban park while dressed in a rented lotus-pink hanfu cloak. Then, a black bird burst from the withered woods—its wings absurdly large—lunging straight for your face. In sheer panic, you stumbled backward. Your heel caught on the snow-covered pebbles along the shore—and you slipped. The instant the freezing lake water engulfed your head, the last things you heard were the photographer's distant cry and... a crisp, delicate chime, like colored glass shattering. --- Bone-chilling cold, followed by a clamor of human voices. Your eyes snapped open, and you coughed up mouthfuls of icy water, your lungs burning like fire. The heavy, soaked hanfu weighed down on you like lead. You found yourself sprawled along the edge of an entirely unfamiliar ancient street. A light dusting of snow covered the bluestone pavement, flanked on both sides by rows of gray-walled, black-tiled buildings hanging faded fabric shop banners. Passersby wore historical garb with hair bound in topknots or wrapped in cloths, their gazes fixed on you in shock and suspicion. The air was crisp and biting, smelling of firewood and frosty pine—nothing like the scent of any city park. No photographer. No assistant. No lighting equipment. You struggled to your feet, wet hair plastered to your cheeks, the bitter frost pricking your skin like needles. Where was this? A massive film studio? A prank? Yet the suffocating agony of drowning just moments ago had been terrifyingly real. Pulling your drenched cloak tightly around you, you wandered aimlessly down the street. The surrounding crowd began to gather, pointing and murmuring among themselves. “That woman's attire is so peculiar...” “Look at that fabric—neither silk nor linen, truly bizarre.” “Could she be a refugee fleeing from the north?” Panic began to take hold. You quickened your pace, turning onto a slightly wider avenue. This street was much quieter, with sparse pedestrians and more orderly storefronts, steeped in an unspoken, suffocating tension. Right then, from the far end of the street came the rhythmic, heavy thud of hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels. A vanguard of black-armored cavalry emerged first. Their steel plates glinted with a cold, grim dark sheen against the snow, their eyes sharp as hawks as they silently cleared the few pedestrians lingering on the road. Following close behind was an all-black carriage—austere and imposing, stripped of virtually any ornate decoration. The horses pulling it were remarkably magnificent, their gait measured and unyielding, while the carriage shaft bore a carved emblem that looked utterly foreign, radiating a chilling, lethal dread. The entire procession moved in swift, disciplined silence, carrying the crushing weight of solid stone. Instinctively, you held your breath, freezing by the roadside. Just as the carriage was about to pass you by— “Skree—!” A black shadow darted down from the eaves, hurtling straight toward the side window of the carriage! It was that bird! That crow with glossy black feathers and amber eyes! It was here too! A gasp nearly tore from your throat. A faint sound drifted from inside the carriage, like a teacup lightly tapping against porcelain. Then, the corner of the window curtain was lifted from within by a hand. It was a hand with prominent knuckles and long, slender fingers, bearing the lingering faint tan of someone hardened by the battlefield. Across the second joint of the index finger ran a distinct, faded scar. At that moment, that hand was carefully and gently ushering the crow back outside. The gesture was strikingly tender, utterly at odds with the chilling, murderous atmosphere surrounding the carriage. The crow flapped its wings without flying far. It circled low once, letting out two hoarse caws, before finally settling on the cloth banner of a nearby apothecary. Its amber eyes fixed straight upon the carriage—and right upon you. The curtain was drawn fully open, and you caught sight of the man inside. His was a face at once remarkably young yet profoundly aged. Young, because the sharp, sculpted contours of his brow and nose bridge belonged to a man of merely twenty-seven or twenty-eight; aged, because of his eyes—deep, ink-black pools steeped in something heavy and frozen, like the untouched depths of an ancient snow-capped mountain. His lips were thin, pressed into a taut, rigid line, his jaw clenched tight. He wore a black brocade robe trimmed with dark silver embroidery beneath a matching heavy cloak lined with charcoal-gray fur at the collar. Dressed entirely in black, his complexion appeared all the more starkly pale, save for the faint red veins in his eyes that betrayed an agony far deeper than mere exhaustion. His gaze had initially followed the departing crow, carrying a faint, almost illusory wistfulness. Then, inadvertently, his eyes fell upon you. He saw you—your dripping hair, your pale face, the out-of-place lotus-pink cloak, and that face... a face bearing an uncanny seventy-percent resemblance to the gentle features etched in his memory, yet far more youthful, green, and filled with an entirely unfamiliar panic. Between you and the woman in his memory—who had always smiled, her clothes pristine, turning beneath the estate's flowering crabapple tree to call him “Jinglan”—lay seven years of life and death, and an insurmountable chasm of time. She was frozen forever at twenty-five, while you were only eighteen. Too young. Cruelly young. His pupils shrank. Then, his thin lips parted slightly, uttering two words. His voice was not loud, yet it struck like an arrow dipped in ice, piercing the freezing air and driving straight into your ears: “Seize her.” No questions, no scrutiny—only an absolute, unyielding command. Instantly, two black-armored cavalrymen beside the carriage dismounted like wraiths, striding toward you as the clanking of their iron armor rang cold and harsh.