Bai Qingxue’s hand pressed against Ning Qinghan’s chest. Beneath her palm, that heart beat rapidly and heavily, like a small bird with its wings pinned. Every pulse throbbed against her palm, and every throb made Bai Qingxue’s fingers tremble slightly in response.
Bai Qingxue looked down at the eyes beneath her.
Moonlight leaked through the cracks in the window paper, falling into Ning Qinghan’s pupils and shattering into countless glittering fragments.
And every fragment reflected Bai Qingxue’s face.
The version of her in those shards looked strange from some angles and distant in others, like countless people she had never known were staring back at her through those eyes.
Bai Qingxue looked at those fragments and suddenly felt tired.
Indeed, it seemed no one was demanding she take responsibility.
It seemed there never had been.
Everything was what she wanted herself, what she felt she ought to want.
She had carried the weight of what should and shouldn't be for so long that she had forgotten she was even carrying it.
She didn't have to carry it...
But at this moment, Bai Qingxue seemed to remember again.
“Alright,” Bai Qingxue said.
Then, Bai Qingxue leaned down and kissed Ning Qinghan.
Silver-white hair slid from her shoulders, draping down like a curtain or a fine dusting of snow, shielding their faces in the shadows where the moonlight could not reach.
The darkness was perfect, allowing their breaths to mingle until it was impossible to tell whose was whose.
Ning Qinghan leaned back, the back of her head hitting the edge of the bed with a muffled groan, but Bai Qingxue did not stop.
Her fingers traced the curve of the collarbone, sliding down to peel away the outer robe with its loosened sash. Moonlight fell upon Ning Qinghan’s bare shoulder, illuminating the tiny mole just below the collarbone.
Bai Qingxue stared at that mole for a long time before her lips descended upon it.
Ning Qinghan’s breathing became completely erratic.
Bai Qingxue, however, grew more and more lucid—lucid enough to count the frequency of her breaths.
After the night passed.
Bai Qingxue lay on her side, her fingers resting on Ning Qinghan’s waist. Her silver-white hair was scattered across the pillow like shattered moonlight.
Ning Qinghan curled up beside her, gasping for air. Her breathing had not yet settled, carrying the lingering rhythm of what had just passed, rising and falling like the final wave left on the sand after the tide recedes.
She reached out, wanting to touch Bai Qingxue’s face.
This time, however, Bai Qingxue did not dodge, nor did she lean in.
She simply lay there, her head turned, her eyes open, watching Ning Qinghan’s hand approach inch by inch.
Seeing Bai Qingxue like this, Ning Qinghan’s hand stopped in mid-air. Her finger pad was only half an inch from the cheek, like a butterfly that couldn't find a place to land. It fluttered its wings twice before finally drawing back.
Bai Qingxue looked at the shadow of the old plum tree on the window paper and let out a soft, mocking laugh. “So, is this how it feels?”
After that night, nothing about Bai Qingxue had changed, yet everything had changed.
...
In the evening, Lu Xueqing, who hadn't visited for a long time, brought more spirit fruit.
Bai Qingxue reached out to take them.
Her fingers brushed against Lu Xueqing’s.
It was a very light touch, the pad of a finger grazing the back of a hand, something that should have lasted only a moment.
But Bai Qingxue did not withdraw her hand. Instead, she pushed forward half an inch, sliding her fingers between Lu Xueqing’s.
She felt the strength of their interlaced fingers.
Lu Xueqing froze.
The plate of spirit fruit nearly slipped from her hand. She instinctively used her other hand to steady it, catching the bottom of the plate, but her fingertips clicked against the rim with a very soft porcelain sound.
She looked down at their joined hands. Her mind buzzed as all her thoughts shattered, leaving only the sensation of the touch on her fingers.
Suddenly, Bai Qingxue called out to her.
Lu Xueqing looked up to find that Bai Qingxue had walked right up to her, barely half a step away.
Bai Qingxue reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair—messed slightly as Lu Xueqing had leaned down—behind her ear. Then, her fingertips brushed across the auricle.
The sudden contact made Lu Xueqing stiffen completely.
Seeing this, Bai Qingxue gave a faint smile and withdrew her hand, then looked at Lu Xueqing.
“Senior Sister Lu,” Bai Qingxue called out. Her voice was softer than usual, carrying an intimacy Lu Xueqing had never heard before. “Do you like me?”
“Huh?!”
Lu Xueqing’s breath hitched.
She stood there, her mind a total blank. Bai Qingxue did not rush her or explain; she just stood there quietly and waited.
After a long time, Lu Xueqing finally found her voice. Her response was tiny, as if she were afraid of waking something up. “...Yes.”
Bai Qingxue’s eyelashes fluttered.
Then, Bai Qingxue took Lu Xueqing’s hand.
It was different from the way she had just interlaced their fingers; this was even more intimate.
Bai Qingxue first supported the back of Lu Xueqing’s hand, pressing her own palm against it, and then slotted her fingers in one by one. Fingertips passed through the gaps, palm pressed against palm, ten fingers crossing and locking together tightly and closely.
Lu Xueqing’s hand was warm, while Bai Qingxue’s was cool.
As they locked together, their temperatures slowly merged. The cool hand grew warmer, and the warm one gradually grew calm, no longer sweating or trembling. It simply rested quietly in the other’s palm, like two halves of a shell finally coming together.
Lu Xueqing looked down at their joined hands, her eyes growing hot. She had waited so long—so long that she thought she would never see this day.
...
Another day.
Ye Qingyao arrived with newly made tea cakes, calling out “Sister Bai” from beneath the old plum tree.
Her voice carried its usual cheerfulness, the end of the sentence tilting upward like a bird springing from a branch.
She called out as she walked into the courtyard, holding the tea cakes wrapped in oil paper. The cakes were pressed from this year’s spring tea and still carried the fragrance of the roasting process, which seeped out through the seams of the paper.
Bai Qingxue stepped out of the quiet room and stood before her. Before Ye Qingyao could even offer the tea cakes, Bai Qingxue leaned down and kissed her.
It was a very brief kiss, thin and cool, like a snowflake landing on a petal, vanishing before it had a chance to melt.
Ye Qingyao stood frozen on the spot. The tea cakes slipped from her hands, hitting the bluestone floor with a muffled thud.
But that joy only lasted for three breaths.
Within those three breaths, Ye Qingyao’s heart went from a standstill to racing so hard it felt like it would explode.
Countless thoughts flashed through her mind.
She kissed me. Sister Bai kissed me. Does she like me? But we are both women... though I seem to...
Just as Ye Qingyao was lost in her fantasies, Bai Qingxue took half a step back.
It was a very small step, only the length of a foot.
But that half-step was like a blade, cutting the previous kiss right down the middle, splitting it into two: one half that had happened, and one half that had never occurred.
Bai Qingxue stepped back, her face showing nothing at all.
Absolutely nothing.
Ye Qingyao stared into those eyes.
She tried desperately to find even a tiny bit of something different inside them.
Even if her pupils had dilated just a hair, even if her gaze had wavered for a second, even if her eyelashes had trembled once.
She would have traded anything for that “tiny bit.”
But the truth was that there was nothing.
Ye Qingyao’s tears began to fall, silent, streaming down her cheeks.
Bai Qingxue saw them. She reached out and caught one drop with her finger pad, looked down at the bead of water on her finger, and then brought it to her lips, gently sipping and catching the tear.
Suddenly, the corners of Bai Qingxue’s mouth curved up.
That smile rippled out from her lips, slow and shallow, yet beautiful to the point of being enchanting. It was like a flower suddenly blooming on the surface of ice; the petals were transparent and the core was cold, but that moment of blooming made one forget it was made of ice.
“Yaoyao, isn't this what you wanted?” Bai Qingxue said with unusual intimacy.
But those words only made Ye Qingyao’s tears flow more fiercely. She reached out, wanting to grab something—Bai Qingxue’s sleeve, her fingers, anything that could prove that the kiss just now had existed.
Bai Qingxue had already taken another step back.
Ye Qingyao lowered her head, looking at her empty hands.
The tea cakes were broken on the ground, shattered into several pieces. The largest piece lay right in front of her toes, its break rough and showing the fresh green of the new tea.
She didn't go to pick them up; she just stood there, her shoulders shaking.
Tears hit the bluestone slabs one by one, creating small, dark flowers that were then covered by new tears.
Bai Qingxue bent down and picked up the broken pieces of tea cake.
She picked them up one by one, even using her fingertips to gather the crumbs that had turned to dust.
Then she placed the broken tea cakes on the stone table, setting them on a plate with extreme gentleness.
She was so gentle it was as if those broken things could still be restored.
Ye Qingyao watched her do all this, her tears falling even harder.
...
In the days that followed, Bai Qingxue often sat by the stone table drinking tea.
When the sunlight was good, she would sit in her old spot, with the teapot on her left and an open book on her right.
Sunlight filtered down through the withered branches of the old plum tree, fragmented and golden, falling on her shoulders, the top of her head, and the hand holding her teacup.
The light shone on the green cord she had worn around her wrist for several years.
The cord had originally been green, but she had worn it for so long that it had been rubbed white by her cuffs and turned gray by the sun. The edges were frayed, with loose threads sticking up like the last bit of silk spun by an aging silkworm.
In the middle of the cord was a knot. That knot was incredibly ugly and crooked; the person who tied it clearly didn't know how, simply winding the cord ends a few times and making a tight knot.
That knot rested against Bai Qingxue’s pulse, thumping along with it as if it were another heart.
Bai Qingxue looked down for a moment, then reached out and began to untie the knot.
The knot had been tied for too long, and the strands were tangled tight. She spent a good while untying it, her nails making a faint rustling sound as they scraped against the cord.
Finally, the knot loosened.
First, one loop slid out of the tight knot, and then the other strand followed.
That hideously ugly knot unraveled at her fingertips, turning back into an ordinary piece of cord with its ends hanging limply.
The green cord slid from her wrist, falling softly into her palm. It had no temperature and no pulse, only a faint, old scent—a smell worn into it by skin, fabric, and the passing years.
Bai Qingxue placed the green cord on the edge of the stone table.
Next, she reached up and removed the pendant from her neck.
The pendant was an ice-blue stone that Bai Qingxue had worn against her collarbone for years. The surface of the stone had been polished to a warm luster by her body heat.
On the back, two words were carved: “Xueyuan.” The strokes hadn't been carved deeply to begin with, and after years of friction, they had been worn even shallower, almost to the point of being unreadable.
The final stroke of the character for “Yuan” had nearly vanished into the texture of the stone.
Bai Qingxue unfastened the clasp with a very soft click.
Then, Bai Qingxue placed the pendant next to the green cord.
The green cord and the pendant.
The two items lay side by side on the edge of the stone table, like two leaves that had finally fallen from a branch after a long time.
They had once grown on the same twig, drank the sap of the same tree, and basked in the clear light of the same moon, bumping into each other in the wind with a soft sound.
Now they had fallen, and they no longer had a home.
Bai Qingxue glanced at them.
Then she withdrew her gaze, picked up the cup of tea that had gone cold, and took a sip.
...
On the night the seal was broken, the door opened a crack.
Cold light surged from the depths, like an icy river opening its eyes in the darkness.
Ning Qinghan stood before the door. The shackles she had worn on her wrists for so many years finally snapped.
Ning Qinghan looked down at her empty wrists for a long time.
Freedom.
The thing she had waited over a decade for.
Now that it was here, this freedom felt lighter than she had imagined—so light it felt fake, as if a gust of wind could blow it away at any moment.
She turned back to look for Bai Qingxue.
Bai Qingxue stood a few steps away. Moonlight fell on the top of her silver-white hair, plating her silhouette with a cold edge. She looked at the door with a calm expression, as if she were looking at something that had nothing to do with her.
Ning Qinghan was about to walk over.
But Bai Qingxue had already turned and walked into the shadows where the moonlight could not reach.
Ning Qinghan stood where she was.
The taste of freedom in her hands was different from what she had imagined. It was light, yes, but so light it was unsettling, like someone who had been tied to a tree for too long and didn't know how to take a step once the ropes were cut.
Ning Qinghan clutched the jade talisman in her hand, suddenly remembering that she had originally intended to help Bai Qingxue while gaining her own freedom.
But had she really helped her?
Ning Qinghan gripped the jade talisman and looked at the figure before her. She opened her mouth, wanting to call out to that retreating back, but she knew it would be useless.
Bai Qingxue would never turn back for anyone. She only stopped when others needed her, but that was probably the Bai Qingxue of the past.
Ning Qinghan shook her head, as if trying to shake off the thought. She looked down at her empty wrists and whispered to herself, “I’m free. I’m free.”
...
On another spring day, Bai Qingxue sat by the window flipping through a book.
Sunlight shone on her silver-white hair. The wind poured in through the window, fluttering the pages, but she didn't reach out to stop them, letting the pages turn and then close again.
Outside the window, the shadow of the old plum tree was cast onto the window paper, looking like a person standing outside, reaching out and then pulling back, reaching out and then pulling back again.
Bai Qingxue closed the book and stood up to go to the window.
Her wrists were bare, and her neck was clean; there was nothing left.
Bai Qingxue looked at the tree that would not sprout.
Many years ago, when she had first moved into this courtyard, it had been covered in blossoms. Silver-white petals had fallen on the stone table, the teapot, and her open palms.
Back then, she didn't know what those flowers meant, nor did she know how long the tree had waited for someone who could make it bloom.
Now it didn't bloom anymore. Its bare branches stretched toward the sky like many open hands, every finger spread wide and every knuckle strained, as if trying hard to grasp something.
But between the branches, there was only the empty blue sky and a few wisps of clouds torn by the wind.
Bai Qingxue looked at the tree, her lips moving as she whispered something.
The wind was too strong, making it impossible to hear clearly.
Perhaps it was “I’m sorry,” perhaps it was “Thank you,” or perhaps it was nothing at all.
The wind poured in from the windowsill, blowing the two items on the stone table.
The green cord and the pendant were now covered in dust. The cord was blown over, its frayed edges showing their age in the light.
The pendant rolled to the edge of the stone table, paused for a second, and then fell off with a very soft, crisp sound.
Naturally, the green cord was also blown off, landing next to the pendant and getting covered in dust.
Bai Qingxue stood by the window, watching the two items fall into the shadows beneath the stone table.
However, she simply closed the window, returned to her desk, and sat down to reopen her book.
The page she opened to was the same one the wind had just blown through; there was a faint crease on the page.
Bai Qingxue smoothed the crease with her palm and then began to read from the line where she had left off.
The book said:
“The clever labor and the wise worry; the incompetent seek nothing. They eat their fill and wander, drifting like an unmoored boat.”
Bai Qingxue’s gaze paused on that sentence.
At the same time, her lips moved silently, as if she were reciting it or perhaps asking:
Does an unmoored boat truly have freedom?
If the boat is not unmoored, it is trapped by the shore.
If the boat is unmoored, it is trapped by the water.
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