Shen Xiyin hugged her trembling body, forcing herself to recall—through three years of marriage—whether she had ever done such a thing with her husband. The answer was no.
In the teachings she had absorbed since childhood, such acts violated the principle of mutual respect between husband and wife. They were not the conduct of a modest, virtuous woman. She raised a hand to press against her wildly beating heart.
No familiar dripping sound echoed in her ear; she could not tell how much time remained before this trial would be forcibly enacted. Perhaps there was still a long while; perhaps it would come in the very next instant. From the moment that ominous prompt had fallen, it seemed to trap her in a state of constant tension.
Just beyond the wall, Pei Su sat cross‑legged in meditation, fine beads of sweat seeping from his brow. The candlelight flickered, casting his face in shifting shadows. His silhouette on the earthen wall swayed back and forth, as though tugged by unseen forces. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and swept his hand to extinguish the troubling flame.
The summer night in the village house was stiflingly hot. Shen Xiyin lay restless upon the bed, her robe loosened at the collar. Strands of disheveled black hair clung to her damp neck; her breath came short and shallow, lips parted as she panted. The incessant chorus of cicadas outside only heightened her agitation. Overcome, she tugged open her inner garment, baring half her body. A faint night breeze drifted in through the window lattice, carrying away a trace of her feverish discomfort. Just as she began to feel a moment’s relief, the words of that prompt returned to her mind. Her body stiffened abruptly, and she hastily pulled her garment closed again. Clutching the pillow tightly, her knees drew together of their own accord.
She ought to loathe and resist with all her strength—yet her body betrayed her, again and again, defying her will. Worse still, these degrading trials stirred within her a strange, unspeakable sensation. Helpless, shame‑filled tears welled from her eyes, soaking the pillow until it was mottled with damp stains.
Only when the night began to fade—when threads of pale gold seeped into the heavy indigo sky—did the darkness retreat. Morning light spilled through the window, turning the motes of dust into drifting flecks of gold.
Shen Xiyin rose, wiping away the traces of last night’s tears. At the water jar by the stove, she scooped up clear water to wash her face and rinse her mouth, tidying herself back into order.
No matter what, life still had to be lived.
The village cottage at dawn was fresh with lingering night moisture. Birds chirped, and the air carried the vibrant scent of grass and trees. She planned to wander among the nearby cottages, searching carefully.
Yesterday, in the abandoned hut where she had stayed, she had found several useful things—old candles, a fire‑striker. Perhaps the neighboring houses held similar treasures. With a bamboo basket on her back, she walked along the village path, almost as if setting out on a treasure hunt. Though the place had long been deserted, it still held many items worth salvaging.
Objects that seemed useless could prove invaluable in another setting. A broken table or chair missing a leg could serve perfectly as firewood. Rotten straw ropes, though too fragile to bind anything, ignited easily—pulled apart and twisted, they made excellent tinder for the hearth.
Even a cracked porcelain bowl, though unfit for food, could steady a wobbly table leg. A torn straw mat mixed with mud could patch the leaks in a wall.
She began her search at the house by the village entrance. Pushing open its crooked wooden gate, she brushed aside the thick cobwebs and stepped inside.
The dwelling was small. From the look of it, its former occupant had been an elderly woman. On the table beside the bed lay needles, thread, and an unfinished handkerchief, with wax drippings pooled nearby. On a small stand to the left sat a copper mirror, its edges tinged green, and beside it a pair of hairpins and earrings, blackened with age, their style long outdated.
Next to the mirror stood a wooden cabinet. When she opened it, a musty stench wafted out. Inside were clothes, most mildewed and tattered, though a few washed garments tucked among them seemed still wearable.
Shen Xiyin held them up against herself; the size was just about right. After a moment’s thought, she placed those garments into her bamboo basket, along with the old copper mirror and the sewing kit. By the stove lay remnants of rice and flour, but they had been stored too long—spoiled, blackened, or rotten, unfit to eat. Only a small clay jar of salt appeared still usable. This house had clearly been abandoned for many years; its owner was unlikely ever to return. Yet before leaving, Shen Xiyin removed the pearl earring from her left ear and set it upon the central wooden table. “Thank you for the loan,” she murmured, and then departed. She went from house to house, searching. In one she discovered a torn scroll of *The Thousand Character Classic*—something she had longed to own as a child. Carefully she blew away the dust and opened it, poring over the pages for a long while. But as she read, her eyes stung as though grit had entered them, and tears welled up. She realized, to her sorrow, that she could no longer recognize all the characters upon the page.
By midday, Shen Xiyin reached the house at the very center of the village—the largest and most solid dwelling of them all. She pushed open the gate and stepped into the courtyard, where several sharp‑pointed iron spades stood propped in a row. Nearly every household in this village seemed to own spades of this peculiar design.
Inside, she glanced around. The walls and floor corners bore the same deep, nearly black stains as the other houses—grime accumulated over long years. On the square table in the main hall sat a few bowls and chopsticks. One bowl held a dark, congealed lump that looked like leftover noodles; nearby, a blotch of black marked where soup had splashed and dried. On the bedroom window paper, faded “fortune” characters were pasted, their gray‑yellow edges curling. On the bed lay several tiny garments for infants, and beside the pillow rested a child’s longevity lock.
Shen Xiyin gazed at the lock for a long while. When she had first married, she too had imagined that before long she would have a child. But later, Xu Yanxing had summoned physicians to treat her, telling her that her body had been worn down in the past and that she would have little chance of conceiving. She thought perhaps it was fate—that she had been born without parents, and in the future would have no children either. Her husband was destined to remain alone.
By the stove in this house, too, were remnants of rice and flour from years past. For some reason, Shen Xiyin felt something strange about this place, though she could not put her finger on it. Lowering her head, she started toward the door of the bedroom. Just as she was about to step out, she collided head‑on with a wall of flesh. She looked up in shock, her gaze colliding with those eyes—familiar yet estranged. Her heart tightened abruptly, and she stumbled back, collapsing onto the floor. The contents of the bamboo basket spilled out with her fall, scattering across the ground in a clatter that shattered the silence of the room.
Supporting herself with both hands against the floor, Shen Xiyin felt as though she had been pulled back to that gathering of refined conversation. Back then, he too had stood before her in this same lofty manner. Only now, unlike before, his brows were furrowed as he looked down at her, asking, “Are you all right?”
Shen Xiyin’s lips trembled as she whispered, “I’m… fine.” Flustered, she lowered her head and hurried to gather the fallen items.
Pei Su bent down, reaching to pick up the bronze mirror that had landed near his feet, but she quickly leaned forward, snatching it up before he could. A faint scent of soapwort drifted from her neckline, stirred into the air by her movements.
Pei Su’s brow tightened ever so slightly.
Once Shen Xiyin had collected everything, she slung the bamboo basket onto her back and slipped out through the narrow doorway. Her shoulder brushed lightly against him as she passed, making her body shiver before she hastened away.
Pei Su remained standing at the door for a long while, then lifted his hand to dust off the spot where she had brushed against him.
Shen Xiyin left the large house and returned to her own quarters. The things she had gathered today would last her for some time.
At the old well, she drew water and washed the clothes she had found in those houses, hanging them out to dry. With the afternoon sun blazing, they would be ready within a couple of hours, and by tomorrow she could change into lighter garments, no longer forced to wear the ill-fitting ornate dress.
While the clothes dried, she went to the stream, caught a fish and some shrimp, and picked a few mushrooms from a decayed broadleaf stump.
As dusk fell, she lit the stove fire and used these ingredients to cook a bowl of fresh fish soup. Sprinkled with a little salt, it smelled rich and savory—and tasted exceptionally good. It was the most delicious meal she had tasted in days, and she could not help but drink several extra bowls of fish soup. But by nightfall, the pleasure had turned to discomfort.
Shen Xiyin sat in the small washroom beside her chamber, trying to relieve herself, yet no matter how she strained, nothing came. Her belly swelled with pressure, her face flushed crimson. She had meant to sleep early, but once she lay down, her mind kept circling back to that unfulfilled prompt, tightening her nerves unbearably. And now, with the urge to ease herself rising, her body refused to cooperate—perhaps because of that very tension. The more she failed, the more anxious she became.
Pressing her hand against her abdomen, her lashes trembled violently. In a haze, she recalled that rainy day when his hand had once pressed there too. The thought sent waves of shuddering through her, leaving her even more unsettled. She could not suppress a faint sound escaping her lips—just then, a polite knock came at the door.
That elder had always kept his distance from her; to come at night must mean something important.
Biting her lip, she forced herself up and shuffled to open the door.
The wooden door creaked, and beneath the watery moonlight stood Pei Su, his tall figure outlined in silver.
Standing in his shadow, Shen Xiyin asked softly, “Do you seek me for some matter?”
His gaze met hers, and he clearly saw the unusual flush on her pale cheeks, the damp indentation her teeth had left on her lower lip, the trembling tip of her teeth against the tender flesh—like someone struggling to endure. He turned his eyes aside, refusing to dwell on her fragile restraint, and lifted his sleeve to reveal his open palm.
“Your belonging.”
In the moonlight, she saw the pearl earring resting in his hand, and her lips parted in startled surprise. For a long moment she stood dazed, unsure what to say, before finally opening her hands to take it from him.
“Don’t lose it again next time.”
With those words, Pei Su lingered no further and turned away.
Shen Xiyin watched his departing figure, her grip tightening again and again around the pearl earring before she came back to herself. Under the night sky, his stride was steady and upright, every sweep of his robe hem measured, his garments never once in disarray. She could not imagine how a man so disciplined and austere could ever be forced into the acts demanded by that trial of passion. Even the opening words—“bare of clothes”—were already absurd beyond belief.