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Hong Lu had been here for a long time, though how long he didn’t quite know. Every day, the same servant walked in the door, gave him his food, and left. He heard the click of the lock after they exited, every single day.
The food was bland, far worse than what he’d been used to. He didn’t argue. At least there wasn’t endless etiquette to manage while he ate. The only downside was the extreme bluntness of the knife and fork he was offered. It made eating a chore. He knew it was to protect him, they’d said as much time and again until he learned to stop asking for nicer utensils.
He asked them for news, sometimes. Not often. The news was never good, more deaths, further decline. More often, he asked for just one day, just an hour outside so that he could visit their graves and pay his respects. He wasn’t allowed.
He hoped their spirits would forgive him. He wanted to pay his respects, but he couldn’t. He just hoped they understood that he would do it if it was in his power.
Very little was in his power, anymore. Even less than it had been. He stayed here, in this red room, and wasted away. There was nothing to do, nobody to speak with besides his servant who had nothing to say but poison, and who left as quickly as they could. It was silent, always, and deeply cold.
—
The spirits hadn’t forgiven him. He heard them, now, sometimes even saw their broken countenances, dead by whatever method the servant had conveyed. They hated him, for he had promised them everything and he had left them with nothing when he was sealed behind his door. He tried to explain, tried to tell them that he would still do everything for them, that all he wanted was for the sake of their unearthly spirits, but they would not listen.
He forgave them for that, though. It wasn’t as if he’d listen to his own pitiful cries, either.
—
Today, he was having lunch with Dai-yu. Dai-yu was dead, but that hadn’t bothered him for… some time, now. He’d heard plenty of the dead, recently, and it was such a kindness to be speaking with a spirit that didn’t hate him.
Not that that was out of the ordinary. That was always how Dai-yu had been, ever so perfect. It was just like her, truly, to join him for lunch. It meant no other spirits could haunt him, and it made the quietness of the room so much less unbearable.
He’d given her part of his serving, as had become their habit, but she never ate. It didn’t matter. If her spirit didn’t hate him, he wouldn’t give her a reason to start. He considered, briefly, making similar offerings to the others, but they weren’t Dai-yu.
Instead, he simply continued to take lunch with Dai-yu. They were pleasant enough, though a constant sense of sadness pervaded them. Dai-yu didn’t seem to notice, as comforting as always. It must have meant he was doing a good job being a polite host, despite his feelings.
Still, he wonders. He hasn’t been able to see the outside since he entered this room, and he has no idea how long it’s been. All he wants to know is if the flowers have fallen yet in the garden that used to be theirs.
With hardly a thought, he asked Dai-yu. Surely, she’d keep up on the matter of the flowers falling. She smiled, gorgeously as always, and leaned over, as if to tell him a secret.
“The flowers will be unburied, this year. They will always be unburied now. You buried me instead, don’t you remember?”
He hated her answer. He knew that already, he’d just wanted to hope that the flowers might be buried, one final year. But of course, he could not cry. He’d promised himself, not after the sheer number of tears she’d spent for him.
The table was empty of all but him and both their uneaten dishes. The petals remained unburied.
—
Dai-yu hasn’t returned since he asked her for the season. Instead, the rest of the spirits came back to haunt him for his mistakes. He deserves it, honestly, for being so rude to her. A horrible host he’d been, asking such an insensitive question.
It’s just an unfortunate thing. Recently, he thinks he’s been getting less and less. Perhaps it was from him giving the food to Dai-yu, but it's not enough even now that she’s gone. Hunger gnaws at him endlessly, now.
He just wishes that the spirits would stop. He couldn’t ever give them anything, and he has far less to give, now. It doesn’t exactly matter to them, it seems.
He’s just so tired of this all. News still makes its way to him, reluctantly. There are more spirits, but it hardly makes a difference. Their voices all blend into the same vortex of hate.
—
The blood drips down his face in the shape of tears. Finally, he saw the spirits no more, putting them to rest. It covered his fingers, too, and viscera that vaguely resembled an eye covered the floor beneath his feet.
The servant looked up at him in horror, and he could hardly move. It was so, so freeing to be able to see like this. Finally, he’d killed his ghosts. The servant ran, and by some half-dead instinct he followed, rushing at the door.
Once again, he heard the click of the lock. His hands stained the door as he helplessly wrenched at the handle.
At last, the silence reigned above all.