Raindrops tapped softly against the French window, a rhythmic crackling that filled the quiet room. One drop slid down, leaving behind an oval trail. Before it could fade, another followed. Soon, the glass was a canvas of glistening trails—each drop racing downward, merging, vanishing.
My mother’s dressing table sat right beneath that window. They say she loved the rain—perhaps that’s why I feel closest to her on days like this. I can’t remember her face, and there isn’t a single photo of her left. But people often say I resemble her. So, I stare into the mirror more than I should, trying to find her reflection in mine.
They call me beautiful. But I know—it’s her beauty they’re seeing, not mine. Everyone who knew her says my mother was more than beautiful; she was legendary. Uncle Lei used to tell me with a wistful smile, “Your mother—one glance could captivate a city; another, a nation. Understand?”
I believed him. Because whenever her name came up, admiration always followed.
“Mrs. San Gongzi? A true beauty, unlike any other.”
Ah, yes—San Gongzi, my father’s youthful name. They say he would ride his horse across the stone bridge, sleeves flying, laughter echoing like thunder. The same man who could shake the pride of princes with his temper. I’ve heard countless tales of his daring feats, but never of his love story with my mother. Not once—not even from him.
Surely, it wasn’t because their story was dull. How could it be? A woman whose beauty could mesmerize a kingdom, and a man with power that could move mountains—how could such a union not burn bright with legend?
My uncles say I inherited my mother’s face but my father’s fire. It’s true—I’m quick to anger, proud, stubborn, restless. Every time I speak of my mother, my father’s reaction betrays him. Sometimes he rages; sometimes he turns away in silence. But both are answers in their own way.
There is a secret there—hidden in his silence, buried beneath the years. I can feel it.
And I will find it. Even if it means unearthing every shadow of their story.
It was a lingering rainy evening, the kind that wrapped the house in a hushed melancholy. I was in the study, surrounded by shelves heavy with ancient, thread-bound books. Sitting at the top of the stairs, I idly flipped through pages that smelled faintly of ink and age. Then—by accident—a hidden scroll unfurled, and a thin slip of paper fluttered out like a white butterfly, gliding silently to the floor.
At first, I thought it was a bookmark. But when I bent to pick it up, I realized it was a plain sheet, faintly yellowed with time, bearing only a few trembling lines of handwriting:
“Mulan: Forgive me for not being able to see you. The last time we met, he flew into a rage; it was a horrible scene. He didn’t believe me—said he’d never believe me again. I am truly in despair.”
The handwriting was elegant—gentle yet sorrowful. I had never seen it before. I stood there, stunned, my heartbeat quickening. Turning back to the book, I saw it was an old Song Dynasty Poetry Collection. The paper had been placed between a page titled ‘Nine Looms’, the author unknown. The verse read:
“Eight looms, a palindrome—whose poem is this?
Woven into a sense of desolation,
I read line after line, speechless and weary,
Unable to ponder it any further.”
Beside the poem, the same graceful hand had added a note:
“I can’t bear to ponder it any further. Even if I could buy Xiangru’s poems with a thousand gold, how could I ever look back?”
I froze. The writing was not my grandmother’s, nor my aunts’. Then whose could it be? Who would dare to write in the books of this study? Could it… be my mother?
My father’s fiery nature flowed in my veins—I couldn’t resist chasing after answers. Without hesitation, I called Uncle Lei. He answered with a teasing chuckle, “Miss, what is it this time? Don’t tell me you’ve lost another classmate?”
I smiled despite myself. “Uncle Lei, I’ll have to trouble you again. I need to find someone.”
He sighed, half amused. “Who’s brave enough to hide from you? Tell me, and I’ll bring them straight to your door.”
I laughed softly. “It’s not that simple this time. I only have a name—Mulan. I don’t know if it’s her surname or given name. I don’t know her age, her face, or even if she’s still alive. But please, Uncle Lei, find her.”
There was silence. A long, heavy silence. Then Uncle Lei’s voice came back, quieter, cautious. “Why are you looking for her, Miss? Does your father know?”
That tone—guarded, uneasy—made my heart tighten. “What does this have to do with Father?”
He hesitated before answering, “Nannan… Mulan is dead. She died long ago. She was in that car too.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. “That car… you mean—the one with my mother?”
“Yes,” he said gently. “She was your mother’s closest friend. They were together that day.”
I sat frozen, the paper trembling in my hand. Gone. My only clue, vanished in a tragedy I’d never fully understood.
I don’t remember how the call ended. When I came back to myself, the rain had deepened outside, and dusk had crept in unnoticed. It wasn’t until Ah Zhu called me for dinner that I stirred from my daze.
Downstairs, the dining room glowed warmly. Several guests were already seated—among them, Uncle Lei. Father stood beside him, his posture sharp, his military uniform impeccable. Even with age silvering his hair, he radiated an authority that made the room fall silent.
His cold gaze swept toward me. “I heard from your Uncle Lei that you asked about Mulan.”
Betrayed already. Predictable. I cast a look at Uncle Lei, who gave me a helpless smile.
“I just heard she was Mother’s friend,” I said steadily, forcing my voice not to tremble. “I wanted to know more. But Uncle Lei told me she’s… gone.”
Father’s eyes locked on mine—ten seconds of unbroken silence that felt like eternity.
Finally, he said, “I’ve told you before—don’t trouble your uncles with nonsense. They have serious matters to handle. Do you understand?”
I muttered, “Hmm…” but before I could finish, Uncle Lei interjected quickly, “Sir, about the Qinghu property—the repairs are urgent before the rainy season.”
Father’s attention shifted. “Let Xiao Xu handle it,” he said, turning toward the dining room. “Let’s eat.”
As he walked away, I made a face at Uncle Lei, who chuckled softly. “Ah, when the cat’s away, the little mouse dares to squeak again?”
I arched an eyebrow, and the uncles tried to hide their laughter.
Dinner was served—delicate dishes, steaming and fragrant. Father and his companions spoke of military affairs while I quietly picked at my food. His mood was sour, as it had been for years. He rarely smiled, much like my late grandfather.
Grandfather… he too had been a man of tempers and thunderous words, yet his heart had always melted for me. Raised in my grandmother’s care, I would often be carried into his study after his angry outbursts, and his expression would soften instantly. He’d take me to the garden, showing me his prized orchids, his voice gentle in the twilight.
Even as age hardened him further, he spoiled me. He’d order chocolates when I recited poems, take me out to see the sea or the houses by Fengjing River. I once drew the word “King” on his forehead while he napped. He woke fuming—but instead of scolding me, he gave me chocolate to stop my tears.
I remember giggling and saying, “It’s great being a grandpa—everyone’s scared of you, and you can do whatever you want.”
Those were the days of innocence—before secrets, before letters that whispered from the past, before the rain that carried my mother’s memory back to me.
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