On a midsummer afternoon when he was six, much like today with torrential rain pouring down, he heard a faint chirping on his way back to Qingyan Study. It was soft, but short and continuous.
Following the source of the sound, Yun Cheng found a wild sparrow with an injured left wing hiding in the bushes.
Blood was gushing from its wound, and its uninjured wing had been soaked so heavy by the downpour that lifting it had become difficult.
Meeting its dark, clear eyes, he felt no stir in his heart.
All creatures must ultimately face life and death. Even if he saved it today, that would only delay its demise temporarily.
Just as he turned to leave, he suddenly recalled what Yun Wenhu had said not long ago: "Heaven has the virtue of cherishing life."
Yun Wenhu had explained the meaning of those words while looking at him with a compassionate gaze he could not comprehend.
He had then asked in confusion: "Grandfather, why do you sigh?"
Yun Wenhu did not answer directly, instead asking whether he understood the phrase. He recited the words verbatim as spoken, yet failed to receive the elder's praise as he usually did.
"You are still young, after all. It is only natural that you cannot grasp the true meaning of this."
He murmured softly, as if comforting him, or perhaps talking to himself.
The sparrow continued its mournful cries behind him, its voice growing increasingly shrill. Yun Cheng's mind stirred, and he vaguely began to understand what Yun Wenhu's disappointment was about.
So then—if this sparrow bled to death because of him, would the sin of watching it die without saving it fall upon his head?
After a brief hesitation, Yun Cheng finally overcame his instinctive aversion to dirt and grabbed it with his bare hands, carrying the trembling sparrow back to Qingyan Study. Perhaps realizing he was trying to save it, the creature, though shaking violently, did not struggle recklessly, nor did it peck him with its sharp beak.
When his fingers touched that warm, slender neck, an indescribable feeling arose in his chest.
It was the first time he experienced what it meant to hold the power of life and death.
Such a fragile life—with just a bit more force from his hand, he could strangle it. Yet at this moment, he chose to try and save it.
He was not saving it out of kindness, nor out of reverence for life.
He simply wanted to prove to Yun Wenhu that he could become a gentleman of compassion—even if it was merely a facade.
He fetched golden wound medicine and clean cotton cloth to bandage it, then ordered someone to bring a plate of millet.
The poor sparrow pecked at a few grains listlessly before curling up on his discarded dirty clothes. Perhaps because it was too weak, it was so well-behaved it hardly seemed like a bird at all. This pleased Yun Cheng greatly—if it had chirped and squawked until his head ached, he would not have hesitated to toss it back out to fend for itself.
To demonstrate his care and affection for it, he deliberately stayed awake all night, keeping watch over it with open eyes.
He knew that the next day, Fu Mu would surely report this matter to Sui Shi and Yun Wenhu.
Sure enough, Yun Wenhu asked about the injured sparrow the following day. He recited the speech he had prepared in advance, letting a hint of softness surface in his eyes at just the right moment, saying he would raise it until its wound healed and then set it free.
Yun Wenhu patted his shoulder and reminded him not to neglect his studies because of it.
He clearly saw the approval in the elder's eyes.
After more than half a month of careful tending, the sparrow's wound had fully healed. Soft, fluffy feathers gradually grew over the scabbed area, covering the ugly scar beneath. He selected a beautiful cage for it—one large enough to hold three of its kind with room to spare.
The creature was remarkably attuned to human nature. It loved to perch on his brush stand and chirp, its tail bobbing up and down with particular pride.
He began to grow accustomed to seeing it the moment he looked up after practicing calligraphy or reading.
The only problem was that this wild sparrow, untamable at heart, had developed a longing for the sky. Several times when he was away, it tried to push at the latch with its head and beak, rubbing the feathers around its forehead bare.
He had considered letting it go, but a contrary thought always lingered in his heart.
He was its savior; its life belonged to him. By that reasoning, he could certainly keep it, have it stay by his side until the day he grew tired of it.
Torn over its fate, he was distracted for five consecutive days.
Until one day, Yun Wenhu suddenly stepped into Qingyan Study. At that moment, he was using his brush to tease the listless sparrow. Lately, it had grown sluggish, chirping less and less, slow to respond.
It was hard to say whether Yun Wenhu had deliberately told no one to announce his arrival, or whether his thoughts had been so absorbed by the little sparrow that when he became aware of the approaching footsteps, he guiltily tucked the bird into his sleeve.
Yun Wenhu seemed not to notice anything unusual, yet his gaze swept past the empty birdcage as he asked where it had gone.
He lied, saying he had just released it.
The elder asked as if casually, then turned his attention to his studies, firing question after question from sharp, incisive angles, leaving him no room to think of anything else but to answer earnestly.
After the visitor left Qingyan Study, more than an hour had passed. He suddenly remembered something terrible and hastily pulled open his sleeve pocket, only to find the little sparrow lying limp, eyes closed—it had suffocated to death.
He cradled it in his hands. A trace of warmth still lingered on its body, but beneath the feathers, the tiny organs had gradually ceased their beating. No matter how he tried to revive it, it was ultimately dead beyond saving. The sparrow had lived because of him, and in the end, it died because of him.
In the end, it had been killed by his selfishness.
Even so, he did not shed a tear, nor could he deceive himself—for one fleeting moment, a sense of settled indifference had passed through his heart, thinking that perhaps it was better off dead, so he would no longer have to agonize over what to do with it.
In the end, he buried it beneath the locust tree in the front courtyard of Qingyan Study, and cut off one of its feathers, placing it in a wooden box as a reminder.
He would not again be devoured by the desire for control that grew within him.
The older he grew, the more he understood the shock that had flickered across Yun Wenhu's face in that instant.
A cold-hearted freak like him—if he ever revealed his true nature, he was destined to earn no one's affection. And if he ever came to like someone, the more obsessed he became, the worse that person's fate would be.
At this thought, Yun Cheng blinked and looked again at Shao Zhen—this woman who had narrowly survived at his hands.
For a woman, it seemed to be a very difficult thing to wail aloud.
Even in the throes of nightmares at night, she had not cried out loudly; in the light of day, awake and clear-headed, she had even more reservations. And so now she wept silently, like a cloth that had absorbed all the water it could, sinking down and never surfacing again.
His fingers hanging in his sleeve unconsciously rubbed together, wanting to reach out and wipe away the stream of tears on her face.
This impulse made him realize with increasing clarity that he was losing control.
He suddenly remembered the teardrop that had fallen on the back of his hand that night.
At this very moment, that strange burning sensation seemed to spread outward from his hand once more, searing hot enough that the thin layer of window paper over his heart was about to burn through and leave a hole—and in that tiny, insignificant hole, something was sprouting, struggling desperately to push its way out.
He could not stay any longer.
He could not continue standing before Shao Zhen as if nothing were wrong.
He stepped past the two of them, walked to the memorial tablet that Tao Wenkan had newly carved, took three sticks of incense, bowed respectfully, and then strode out of the mourning hall, which was so quiet that only sobbing remained. He did not glance at her again.
But Madam Xu turned back to look at him twice.
The young man, tall and slender, disappeared into the pouring rain without looking back.
Perhaps she was overthinking things, but she could not help feeling that he had made this arduous trip for the sole purpose of coming to Shao Zhen's defense and backing her up.
The rain still had not stopped, its clamorous drumming grating on Yun Cheng's nerves. After leaving the Tao residence, he did not hurry to instruct the coachman to drive away. Now that he was out of Shao Zhen's sight, he could finally slowly ponder the things he had not yet been able to work through.
Tao Wenkan's death was truly an accident that even he had not anticipated. The connection between him and Shao Zhen had originally existed because of Tao Wenkan. Now that he was gone, there was no longer any relation between them.
Perhaps there was still a connection—his friend had once asked him to look after her.
If he had a conscience, he truly ought to fulfill that promise, to plan a path for Shao Zhen and help her through her current difficulties. But Tao Wenkan had likely never anticipated that all the hardships she faced would come from the Tao family itself.
Tao Wenkan had simply closed his eyes and found peace, no longer caught in a dilemma, leaving this entire mess to him.
But the word "conscience" had never had anything to do with him. Even if he went back on his word, the dead Tao Wenkan could do nothing to him.
Look after her? How? To what extent? These questions would all require effort and deliberation to figure out and carry out—troublesome and thankless.
Moreover, what benefit could he possibly gain from Shao Zhen?
She was so frail and powerless, possessing nothing, able to offer him only a few scraps of timid deference and gratitude.
And he had always treated the exchange of interests as his ironclad rule in dealing with the world. Was he really going to break his habits for her alone?
Especially when she was such a hidden danger, one that might provoke him into losing control at any moment.
The coachman waited in vain for his instruction to depart, and fearing they would be late, could not help asking: "Young master, where would you like to go next?"
Yun Cheng cut off his deliberations and made his choice in a flat voice: "Back to the residence."
＊
For the following three days, Shao Zhen stayed in the side room of the Tao residence. In truth, the compound had many spare rooms, but how could Madam Xu possibly be so kind as to have one specially prepared for her?
On this day, at Madam Xu's direction, a group of monks from Baoji Temple was invited to chant sutras and summon the spirit of Tao Wenkan.
She listened expressionlessly to the droning recitations, and somewhere deep in her heart, a hollow was scooped out.
For another four consecutive days, paper was burned at the door morning, noon, and night. As the widow, she knelt behind Madam Xu, letting the blue smoke sting her eyes and cheeks until they ached. By the eighth day, relatives and friends began arriving one after another to offer their condolences. She listened to the kinsfolk wailing in exaggerated grief, but her throat, already hoarse, could not produce a single sound.
Yun Cheng did not appear again. From the Yun family, it was Yun Yao who came in his stead.
The young woman took advantage of a lull around midday to pull her aside and speak with her.
"Zhen-niang," Yun Yao said, looking at her sunken cheeks and dull eyes, knowing that words of comfort would be useless, "have you thought about what you'll do in the days ahead?"
Shao Zhen remained silent, shaking her head. She couldn't spare the thought for such things right now.
Tao Wenkan's death had consumed her entire mind for the moment. As for the murky, uncertain future, she wished she could cover her eyes and plug her ears to avoid it altogether. In any case, fate and the winds of change would push her forward, just as they had forcefully snatched away her beloved.
"You're still so young—surely you don't intend to live as a widow in name only for his sake?" Yun Yao knew her words were somewhat sharp and grating, but precisely because she ached for Shao Zhen's plight, she had to lay the facts bare before the young woman.
Otherwise, with Shao Zhen's honest and simple nature, the entire Tao household would find ways to bully her behind her back now that she had lost her protector.
In this world, it was hard for a childless widow to survive, even within the great households.
She had no child with Tao Wenkan, so the Tao family's disdain for her was inevitable. And if she were to be trapped within these deep walls by so-called chastity, enduring bitter solitude until her hair turned white—what a foolish choice that would be.
"Zhen-niang, you must make proper plans for your own future. You still have a long road ahead. You could find another good man, or even adopt a fresh, freer way of living."
Shao Zhen kept her eyes lowered, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Yun Yao was still young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, and she didn't fully know Shao Zhen's circumstances, which was why she could so optimistically envision a future for her.
But Madam Xu had long harbored ill will toward her—how could she possibly keep her as a dependent? And her natal family was a tangled mess…
One misfortune after another had nearly drained the last of her strength.
She dug her nails into her palm, thinking silently—no matter how she turned and twisted, she might still have to resign herself to fate.
The funeral and burial took place three days later. That day the rain cleared and the skies brightened—a rare sunny day during the plum rain season, the kind of clear day Tao Wenkan had loved most in life.
When she watched with her own eyes as Tao Wenkan's coffin was lowered into the earth and laid to rest, the breath Shao Zhen had been holding in her chest finally dispersed as well.
Whatever else might be said, Madam Xu had at least allowed her to accompany him through the entire funeral.
Shao Zhen returned to the residence she had not set foot in for ten full days. During their absence, the servants had kept every corner clean and tidy.
The sun glared white before her eyes, and waves of dizziness washed over her, but she ignored Xiaowen's pleas to sit and rest.
Madam Xu might come to drive her out at any moment, so she had to seize the time to look over the residence one last time, in its entirety.
Every patch of flowers and grass, every paving stone, had borne witness to her and Tao Wenkan's presence together.
The last place she entered was their bedchamber. Her husband had been gone for over a month now, and the trace of his presence here had faded until it was barely perceptible. Shao Zhen rather regretted that, being tongue-tied as she was, she had never told Tao Wenkan that she actually loved the scent of him—warm and bright like the winter sun, something she, who had grown accustomed to surviving in the cracks of life, had come to cherish deeply.
She closed the doors and windows, and at last, exhausted, she lay down upon the couch.
She hugged the quilt to herself, as if being wrapped in his embrace. At night, he had always loved to draw her into his arms from behind, resting his chin in the hollow of her shoulder, speaking softly to her in intimate murmurs, or, like a clingy great dog, gently nuzzling his cheek against her temples.
Thinking of these memories, as clear as if they had happened yesterday, Shao Zhen pressed her palms over her eyes.
Hot, wet tears leaked through the gaps between her fingers.
She drifted through the day in a daze, half-asleep and half-awake. And sure enough, just as she had predicted, early the next morning, Madam Xu arrived at the residence in a fury, accompanied by a retinue of maidservants and sturdy servants.
Shao Zhen had already instructed Xiaowen the night before to pack up her pitifully meager belongings.