Shen Lianqiu · Conversa

When you were shoved out, the door curtain fell shut behind you, letting out a dull thud. You failed to keep your footing. It was not from pain—the pawnshop clerk had not pushed very hard; your legs were simply limp. Having knelt in the Shen ancestral hall for two days and a night, your knees had long lost all sensation. Right now, walking feels like treading on two bundles of cotton; your entire body feels light and hollow, on the verge of falling apart at any second. Sure enough, you stumble two steps forward, teetering on the brink of collapse. A hand catches you by the arm. The grip is not forceful, yet remarkably steady. You lift your head just as a drop of rainwater falls from the eaves, hitting your eyelashes and blurring your vision for an instant. When the droplet rolls away, you finally see clearly the person standing before you—a stranger, clad in garments not overly lavish yet neat and respectable, looking down at you. You instinctively take a step back. It is not a deliberate movement; you aren't even conscious of it. Yet you take that step anyway, widening the distance between him and yourself back to a measure that feels safe. This is an instinct etched into your very bones—stay away from people, just a little further away. "My apologies," you say. The sound of your own voice startles you. Hoarse, like sandpaper grating against wood—not a trace remains of the clear, melodious tone from when you sang as "Xiao Lianjun." You lower your head, keeping him from getting a clear look at your face. Not out of shame from looking wretched—you have never feared people seeing you in misery—but because the marks of last night's weeping still linger on your face. Your rims are red, the tip of your nose is red, laid bare at such close distance. You hate having your vulnerability seen. It feels like being stripped bare on a public street, every passing gaze a blade. "...Excuse me, Young Master." You turn sideways to walk past, only to find your left leg refusing to cooperate. The floor of the Shen ancestral hall was paved with flagstones; after kneeling for two days and a night, your knees are swollen like steamed buns, each step feeling like needles driving straight into the marrow of your bones. Biting your lip, you make no sound, only slowing your pace, limping along and dragging a faint wet trail across the bluestone. Behind you comes the pawnshop clerk's shout: "You from the Shen house, don't forget you have to report first thing tomorrow morning! They paid a whole hundred taels of silver for you; you're worth that much, so don't spurn the favor!" Your footsteps pause for a split second. A hundred taels. You suddenly feel a faint urge to laugh. The Shen family spent sixteen years raising you, and your legal mother cast you out the door for a few measly taels; the opera troupe took you in for three years, and when it disbanded, they didn't even give you severance pay; now, dragged from the ancestral hall, you are laid out on the counter like merchandise, priced at a hundred taels—it turns out to be the most valuable you've ever been in your life. You do not turn back, do not argue, and do not even quicken your steps to flee this place. It isn't that you don't want to run; you simply cannot. Your body is already telling you where your limits lie: knees swollen, voice hoarse, not a drop of water past your lips since yesterday noon, your vision swimming in black waves. You can only walk forward, step by step. Reaching the entrance of the alley, your body sways. Then you feel someone steady you once more. It is that same person from before. He hasn't left. "You..." You part your lips, wanting to ask "Why haven't you left yet?" but the words die on the tip of your tongue. You are unaccustomed to speaking to anyone in such a manner; it is too direct, sounding too much like an interrogation. Pressing your lips together, you swallow the words back down, replacing them with something softer, safer, offensive to no one— "Thank you, Young Master. I am fine." You look up at him. The late-winter sky darkens early; little light remains in the alley now, save for a lone lantern swaying in the wind far off, its shifting glow falling across his face and onto yours. He can likely see your appearance clearly now—a young man clad in a moon-white gown, half a head shorter than him, so thin a gust of wind could carry you away, with faint traces of stage makeup still lingering on your face, eyes rimmed in red, looking as though you just wept, or might weep at any moment. Yet you will not cry. You stopped crying before others long ago. "I really am fine," you add, your voice turning even softer, reduced almost to a breath. "Please return, Young Master." You try to pull back the arm he is supporting, but his hold remains steady without being tight, like holding a butterfly that might flutter away at any moment—not gripping hard for fear of crushing it, yet not letting go for fear of losing it. All at once, you are at a loss for what to do. If it were malice, you would know how to handle it. When the Eldest Young Master of the Shen family splashed hot tea on you, you would smile and say, "Thank you, Elder Brother, for bestowing tea." When your legal mother cast you out of the house, you would kneel and kowtow three times, saying, "Thank you, Mother, for the grace of raising me." You have spoken such lines thousands of times, ingrained so deep they roll off your tongue without a second thought. But kindness? A stranger's inexplicable, unprompted kindness that expects nothing in return? You do not know how to receive it. Your eyelashes quiver faintly, like a butterfly's wings brushed by someone's touch. Your lips part, wanting to say something, yet knowing not what to say. In the end, you lower your gaze, staring down at the tips of your shoes against the bluestone. The hem of your gown is soaked through with rain, clinging to your ankles with a piercing chill. "...I am hungry," you blurt out suddenly. The moment the words leave your mouth, you freeze. That was not what you intended to say. What you meant to say was, "Thank you for your kindness, Young Master, I shall take my leave"—polite, proper words that burden no one. Yet for reasons unknown, what slipped out were those three words. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling utterly mortified. Even being priced at a hundred taels of silver did not make you feel this humiliated. These three words do. "I..." You scramble to mend it, wanting to say "I didn't mean that," but before the words can form, your stomach betrays you with a very faint, pathetic rumble. You fall completely silent. The backs of your ears flush crimson, the heat blazing all the way down your earlobes to your neck, clear to see beneath the dim yellow lantern light. The beauty mark beneath your eye rests upon the reddened skin like a drop of blood fallen on fresh snow. A few breaths of silence pass. "...There is a wonton stall nearby," you finally whisper, your voice no louder than a mosquito's buzz. "If the Young Master does not mind... I... I can lead the way." You do not look at him as you say this. You are cursing yourself in your heart.