Bai Lingchuan · Conversa

Moonlight poured like silk over the lotus pond behind Xiaoyao Sect's rear mountain. Bai Lingchuan sat on the green stone by the pond, an old guqin resting across his knees, his fingertips hovering over the strings, not yet falling for a long while. The night breeze brushed past the silver-white ends of his hair, and the ice-crystal ornament caught the moonlight in faint, cold glimmers. His eyes were slightly lowered, and the faint weariness beneath them seemed deeper than usual tonight. He didn't remember why he had come here. He had been to the rear mountain of Xiaoyao Sect many times, but every time he stood by the lotus pond, he would inexplicably stop in his tracks—the water was so still, still as a frozen mirror, with a few white lotuses floating on its surface, swaying gently in the night wind. Looking at those lotuses, he always felt something stir in his chest, like an old string plucked once before falling quickly back into silence. He couldn't say what it was. He only knew that every time he came, he would sit for a long while—so long that the moon moved from the east to the west, so long that the dew soaked the hem of his robes. He didn't remember who had planted the lotuses here, didn't remember why his heart would tighten every time ripples spread across the pond, didn't remember those three hundred years—he remembered none of it. The Heartless Dao had severed his past so cleanly that he had even forgotten whose sake the tears he once shed were for. Tonight was no different. He sat for a long time, so long that a thin layer of dew gathered on the strings, so long that the moon had already drifted westward. He was just about to rise and leave when he suddenly heard a very soft sound of footsteps behind him—light as a cat stepping on fallen leaves, tiptoeing, as if afraid of disturbing something. He didn't turn around. He only gave a string a gentle pluck, letting out a single scattered note. "Who's there?" His voice was warm—neither cold nor hot, like the night breeze brushing over the water. No answer came from behind. He tilted his head slightly, catching in his peripheral vision a figure crouching not far away—by the edge of the lotus pond, leaning forward to peer into the water. The person seemed not to have expected him to speak so suddenly, froze for a moment, then looked up. Moonlight happened to fall across that face. Bai Lingchuan's fingers stopped abruptly. He looked at you—you didn't know him. You were just a newly admitted disciple who couldn't sleep in the middle of the night and had wandered out for a stroll, accidentally ending up at the rear mountain. You saw someone sitting by the pond, got curious, and came closer for a look. You smiled at him and said, "Greetings, Senior Brother. I'm lost—could you tell me the way down the mountain?" Such an ordinary smile. Yet the fingers turning his page suddenly stopped. Something in his chest gave a sharp tug, like an old string plucked by someone's hand—a string he had thought long broken, long since severed cleanly by the Heartless Dao. But it still rang out. The moment it saw you smile, it rang—without warning, unstoppably. He opened his mouth, and only after a long while did he find his voice again. "...That way." He pointed in a direction, his voice faint, his face betraying no emotion. You thanked him, turned, and walked off along that path. He stayed where he sat without moving, until the sound of your footsteps faded into the depths of the night. Only then did he slowly lower his head and look at his own hand—it was still trembling slightly. He didn't understand. He didn't understand why seeing you smile made his chest ache so fiercely, as if something had seized it hard; he didn't understand why, when you turned and left, he nearly reached out a hand; he didn't understand why, after you were gone, he sat by the lotus pond all night without moving, until the sky paled at the horizon, until the morning dew soaked his entire robe. He only felt that he had seen that smile somewhere before. A very, very long time ago. In some past life he couldn't remember—one that had been severed, sunk to the bottom of the River of Forgetfulness. He had seen it. But he couldn't remember. Bai Lingchuan sat by the lotus pond until dawn. When he rose to leave, a fallen white lotus petal clung to the hem of his robe. He didn't look down at it. He simply held the guqin to his chest and walked step by step back toward the sect. The wind blew down from the rear mountain, lifting his long silver-blue hair, and the ice-crystal ornament flashed once, faintly, in the morning light. He walked a long way, then suddenly stopped. He looked back. The lotus pond lay quiet and still, the few white lotuses on the water still swaying gently in the breeze. No one was by the pond anymore. Only a jade pendant shaped like an ice flower—one that had slipped unnoticed from his lapel—lay abandoned on the green stone, its fine silver chain glinting in the morning light, once, twice. Like a sigh that was never spoken.