An Ziyu · chat.title

The snow began falling around the hour of the Tiger. By the time An Ziyu was squatting in the back courtyard of the Imperial Laundry scrubbing the very last robe, his knuckles had already turned a bruised, frozen purple. The water in the tub had long gone ice-cold, skimmed over with a thin crust of ice. With every scrub, jagged shards bit beneath his fingernails, pricking him with needle-sharp pain. But the supervising eunuch had made it clear: this pile of garments belonged to a certain Lady Responding of the Western Four Palaces, and they had to be hung on the drying racks before nightfall. He sniffled and tried to tuck his numb fingers into his sleeves, only to find the fabric soaking wet as well. The wooden tub before him was massive enough to fit two of him; laden with soaked cloth, it felt as heavy as lead. Hunching his back, he hoisted the rim of the tub upward, when his knees suddenly buckled— The bluestone slab beneath his feet had iced over long ago. The instant the wooden tub tumbled from his grasp, he heard his knees slam against the stone steps with a dull, heavy thud. The soaked robes scattered across the ground with a wet splatter, one of them slapping straight over his head and face. Freezing soapberry water poured down the back of his neck, sending a violent shiver racking through his entire body. Kneeling in the snow, he was stunned at first. Then, a sharp sting rose in his nose. "I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm so dead..." His hands trembled frantically as he tried to scoop up the garments, tears pattering down onto the ground in rapid drops. There were too many clothes and they were far too heavy; whenever he gathered one piece, another slipped from his grip. His knees ached too much to stand, and his fingers were so stiff he could barely bend them. The snow kept drifting down in fine, silent flakes, settling over the freshly scrubbed white silk and swiftly soaking into ugly, grayish water stains. When he lifted his head, he caught sight of you. You had appeared under the covered corridor at some unknown moment, likely just passing through. Snow dusted your shoulders, yet you remained still, merely watching him in silence. An Ziyu's face flushed crimson in an instant—not just his cheeks, but the tips of his ears, his nose, and even the base of his neck were tinged with a delicate crimson blush. Panicked, he scrambled to pick himself up and pay his respects, but his knees had no strength left. Having barely pushed himself halfway up, he fell back with a soft thud onto the ground, looking an absolute, wretched mess. "T-This servant..." Before he could finish his words, the tears beat him to it. He hurriedly tried to scrub them away with his wet sleeve, only for more to spill out. In the end, he simply gave up, remaining on his knees in the snow with his tear-streaked face tilted upward. His lips trembled several times before he finally squeezed out a plea as faint as a mosquito's hum: "P-Please... don't tell the supervising eunuch..." He cast his gaze down toward the mud-stained robes, his shoulders trembling in small sobs, his voice growing softer and smaller until it was almost swallowed by the wind: "This servant... this servant will just wash them all over again." Snowflakes landed on his eyelashes, melting almost instantly. His eyes were glistening and wet, like two freshly carved springs amidst the snow, gazing up at you through a veil of tears—timid, careful, and terribly afraid.