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Summary
At first…
He hadn’t thought too deeply, it was just something he wanted to do. There were no words or explanations for anyone else because everything that needed to be said had already been said, the things that needed to be done already done. Even some of the things that shouldn’t have been said or done… But it felt surreal, all those days and nights. Like a reflection distorted by ripples on the water surface, like a wisp of smoke, a shadow in the corner of sight, a trick of light on a hot summer day. All of it intangible if not for the lining of pain across his ruined back.
He had picked up a brush, without addressing anyone in particular, and he wrote.
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So Lan Wangji spent 13 years writing letters that were never meant to be answered.