Chapter Text
That night, Changyu did not sleep.
She lay on her side, facing the wall, watching the faint outline of the window as moonlight slowly shifted across the floor. The house was quiet in a way it had never been before. Not the peaceful quiet of late evenings after work, not the comfortable quiet of two people who had nothing to say but did not mind the silence.
This was a hollow quiet.
The kind that made every small sound feel too loud—the creak of wood, the rustle of blankets, the sound of her own breathing.
She closed her eyes, but the moment she did, the memory returned.
Their argument. His voice, low and controlled but shaking at the edges. Her own words, sharp and unforgiving. And then—
That kiss.
It had not been gentle. It had not been hesitant. It had been angry, desperate, reckless—like a man crossing a line he knew he would never be allowed to cross again.
She could still remember the way her heart had slammed against her ribs, the way her fingers had tightened in his clothes without her permission, the way the world had seemed to tilt for just a moment.
How was she supposed to forget something like that?
She turned over and stared at the empty space beside the bed.
“You really are a terrible conversationalist,” she murmured into the darkness.
There was no answer. And somehow, that made it worse.
It was her birthday.
Usually, if there was a special event, Chang Ning and Mrs Zhao would make a fuss, cook something overly extravagant, and declare that surviving another year was a great achievement that deserved celebration. Yan Zheng would stand nearby, looking as if he had been dragged into a situation he did not understand, holding something he had clearly prepared beforehand but pretending it was just a coincidence.
He would then say something extremely short and extremely awkward, and Chang Ning would laugh at him, and Changyu would pretend not to smile.
But today, there was nothing.
No noise. No complaints. No awkward man standing in the corner, pretending he wasn’t part of the household.
Just an empty room.
She did not realise until that moment how much space he had filled simply by existing quietly in it.
She found the gift by accident.
It was wrapped in plain dark cloth and tucked away carefully, as if the person who put it there did not want it to be found too early, but also wanted to make sure it would be found eventually.
Inside was a pair of leather wrist guards.
She stared at them for a long time before touching them.
The leather was thick but soft on the inside. The stitching was neat in some places and uneven in others, as if the person making it had taken it apart and redone it several times until it was acceptable.
She ran her fingers along the seams.
Chang Ning had once complained loudly at dinner about how Changyu’s wrist always twisted when she worked, how she refused to rest it, how one day it would become a serious injury and then she would regret it.
Changyu had waved it off as a small inconvenience. Yan Zheng had said nothing at the time. He had simply continued eating, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.
She swallowed slowly, staring at the wrist guards in her hands.
He had heard. He had remembered. And without telling her, without asking her, without making a big deal out of it—
He had made this for her himself.
Her chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
“I really said some terrible things to you,” she whispered to the empty room.
For a man like him, there must have been reasons for everything he did. He was not someone who acted without thought. Not someone who lied for no reason.
And she—
She had not trusted him. That regret settled quietly in her heart and refused to move.
The weeks that followed were long and colourless.
Changyu worked more than usual. She repaired tools, carried goods, helped neighbours, cleaned, cooked, and fixed things that were not broken just so she would not have to sit still. As long as her hands were busy, her mind would be quiet.
But the moment she stopped moving, even for a moment—
He would appear in her thoughts again.
Standing in the courtyard, leaning against the door, watching the world outside go by.
Sitting silently at the table, teaching Chang Ning to write while she talked endlessly.
Looking at her with that calm, steady gaze that always made her feel as if he knew more than he said.
He followed her like a shadow made of memory.
Slowly, painfully, she began to accept it.
This was her life now. A house that was too quiet. A chair that would remain empty. A man she would probably never see again.
Then one afternoon, destiny knocked on her door.
The man who arrived was clearly not an ordinary messenger. He sat straight, even when drinking tea, his hands calloused in a way that spoke of weapons rather than farm tools. He introduced himself as General He and said he had been her father’s old friend.
He brought news from the capital.
There had been a great victory.
The country was safe.
But the man who secured that victory would not be coming home.
“He wanted you to have this,” the general said, placing a metal canister on the table between them. His voice, though steady, was gentler than before. “He asked me to give it to you if anything happened to him.”
He looked at her for a long moment before adding quietly,
“Read it… when you are ready.”
Her hands trembled as she reached for the canister.
The seal on it was not something she recognised, but she knew immediately that it did not belong to the Yan Zheng she knew in Lin’an. It belonged to someone else. Someone important. Someone from a world far beyond this small house and quiet street.
But as she rolled out the parchment, she saw Yan Zheng’s unmistakable, gentle handwriting. It was then that the memory of him gripped her in a way she couldn't have expected.
Part of her knew that reading his will would be an unwelcome and unneeded reminder of the only man she hoped one day to be lucky enough to forget, but the other part of her was desperate to experience a little piece of him, even in a non-tangible form of words and thoughts.
Changyu,
If you are reading this letter, then we both know what happened, and you’ll know that I no longer have the chance to explain anything to you in person. Either way, I owe you an apology before anything else.
I have never been proud of the way I treated you when we parted. There are simply no excuses for such harsh words. I spoke as if pushing you away would make it easier for both of us, but in truth, I was only trying to make it easier for myself. I do not know whether I will ever forgive myself for that day.
I know that if I were to apologise to you in person, you would accept it without hesitation. You are that kind of person—long-suffering, compassionate, and courageous. The kind of person I have always wanted to be but never quite became.
Since you came into my life, you have taught me things that money, power, and position never could. Your selflessness, your unwitting optimism, and your kindness carved deeper into my cold heart than any blade ever did. You taught me how to enjoy life's simplest blessings, how to smile and, somehow, how to live.
For that, I will always be grateful.
I never told you who I really was, not because I did not trust you, but because the less you knew, the safer you would be.
My life has never been a peaceful one. Since I was young, everyone around me believed I would either earn merit in war or die in war.
I always envisioned myself dying on the battlefield — never growing old, never seeing my hair turn grey, never watching my body grow frail. To me, that slow kind of slow death was most terrifying, like a story that belonged to other people.
Hence, I never intended to marry, because I did not want any woman to spend her life crying over me, or mourning a grave that might not even contain a body. It seemed like a cruel thing to do to another person.
But then I met you.
And for the first time in my life, I found myself thinking that perhaps growing old was not such a terrible thing. That perhaps sitting in a small courtyard, listening to Chang Ning talk endlessly, hearing Mrs Zhao gossip with the village ladies, eating dinner together around the table and watching the seasons change… might be a life worth having.
And I thought… I began to fear death… just a little.
When you saved my life that night, and everything after that began to change in ways I did not expect and did not know how to control.
I made two promises when we married: that I would repay your kindness for saving my life, and that I would help you secure the house your father left you so you could inherit it properly and live without fear of being driven out. Our marriage was supposed to be a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
But somewhere along the way, I broke that agreement.
Not in duty, but in my heart.
Changyu, it is my wish that you will never need to read this letter. If you never read it, it would mean that I returned, that I stayed in Lin’an, that I could live the rest of my life with you in that small house, arguing with you, being scolded by you, and growing old beside you.
I would not wish it any other way.
But fate rarely listens to what we wish.
If you are reading this, then I can only apologise again — because I am not there to speak to you, not there to comfort you, and not there to hold your hand….
Truthfully, the thought of living a long life, the prospect of ageing, growing frail and helpless… is not as frightening anymore, now that we’ve met.
Still, you must forget me.
I pray that someday you will find a gentle scholar. Someone who could write you couplets to hang during Lunar New Year, someone who will not bring danger to your door, someone who can truly give you a peaceful life.
Start a family, fill the house with children and noise, and live the kind of life you deserve.
I have arranged for someone to send you money every month. It will be enough for you and Chang Ning to live comfortably. Do not refuse it. Consider it repayment of a debt I will never truly be able to repay.
Changyu,
You've saved my life.
But more than that, you gave me a home.
Wherever I am, I will remember the days in Lin’an, the small courtyard, the scent of spring after a long winter, the sound of your knife against the chopping board and Chang Ning's laughter…and the way you smiled at me.
Those days were the happiest.
If fate is kind… perhaps in another life, we might meet again. Not as strangers bound by circumstance, nor as two people standing on borrowed time—but as ourselves, with nothing to hide, nothing to repay, and nothing left unsaid.
Perhaps then, I would not have to leave.
And you would not have to learn how to live without me.
But that is only a thought I dare not hold onto for too long.
So until then—
Live well, Changyu.
Do not wait for me.
Do not remember me too often.
But I will remember you for the rest of my life.
— Yan Zheng