Modern-era Extra 2: Return

【03 · The Museum】

The museum had no air conditioning, and being perpetually enclosed left it rather chilly. Qu You had just sniffled once when Zhou Tan took off the black trench coat he was wearing and draped it over her shoulders.

He no longer blushed at public displays of affection the way he once had when they’d first met. Having draped the coat over her, he quite naturally took her hand and kept walking without even turning his head.

Qu You, tugging at the coat’s belt, found this novel and was about to lean around to check whether he’d blushed, but after a few steps she realized something was off, and gave his palm a squeeze instead.

Zhou Tan: “It’s fine, I’m not cold.”

Qu You: “…No, you’re going the wrong way. This is the exit.”

Zhou Tan: “…Oh.”

The K City Museum, newly renovated a few years back, was entirely a warm ochre color, with running water channeled at the entrance to suggest an “underground river.” Zhou Tan found the building rather novel and took several photos in a row with the camera he’d just learned to use.

They all came out blurry.

But it didn’t matter.

The official exhibition began on the second floor, opening with the evolution of K City’s history from prehistoric times onward.

Zhou Tan stood before a glass display case, staring back at the skeleton of a mammoth, and after a long silence finally asked, “By that reckoning, that era was closer to prehistory than the present day is. How is it that people back then knew nothing of it, while people today know everything?”

“There’s a field of study called archaeology,” Qu You said very seriously, pointing at a nearby plaque as she explained. “We’ve invented all kinds of instruments that let us uncover the secrets of prehistoric times from soil, fossils, and broken fragments—history can deceive, but physical traces never do.”

Zhou Tan followed along thoughtfully. “But the history books still exist.”

Qu You realized he’d immediately grasped what she was getting at and happily wrapped both arms around his. “Exactly. Physical traces are static—they can only prove that something existed, not that something happened. Later generations can know we existed from our bones, and with more research, at most guess whether we were rich or poor, whether our lives were hard or easy in life… but you’ll never find anything metaphysical in physical traces.”

“Metaphysical… you mean ‘the Way’?”

“Exactly. ‘Metaphysics’ and ‘the Way’ are both accurate translations of one another…” Qu You said seriously. “The significance of history books lies in filling in the ‘Way’ behind these physical, tangible ‘vessels.’ Across five thousand years of continuous inheritance, it’s not only technology, artifacts, and craftsmanship that have been passed down—the spirit, the integrity, the character contained within them are what truly form the backbone and pillars of a nation.”

Her hand slid up along Zhou Tan’s slender back; he shot her a look, but showed no embarrassment. “History has its murky corners, but it’s a romantic discipline nonetheless.”

“That includes things people pursued even earlier—’romance,’ ‘immortality’—these things sound intangible, but they matter deeply to us. What you’re calling romance lives right there too.” Qu You withdrew her hand under his look, smiling brightly. “Whether it’s understated restraint or the ringing clarity of metal and stone, these sparks and flashes of brilliance scattered throughout history are eternal and radiant.”

Zhou Tan let out a soft “Mm.”

The moment Qu You saw his eyes lower, she knew he’d drifted off into thought, so she gently shook his arm. “Do you remember, back when I pointed at the night sky and told you—the rivers and mountains carry eternal splendor…”

She blinked, her gaze earnest, shimmering with an indescribably subtle light in the dim museum. “You’ve already been carved into it. Even if you only struck a single spark in the night, that spark was still infinitely noble, infinitely beautiful.”

Zhou Tan studied Qu You’s face.

She’d put on beautiful makeup today, her long lashes fluttering faintly, like butterfly wings.

He reached up and gently brushed her cheek, murmuring tenderly, “So were you.”

The two of them continued through the museum hand in hand, passing by a deep crimson official robe with subtle patterns she’d seen in her dreams, official documents, Northern Yin seals of office, a long jade hairpin, and that white jade ring.

The overhead lights were bright; the description was a single line.

“White jade ring from the Northern Yin period, excavated January 2, 2019.”

Zhou Tan looked at the ring through the thick display glass, and could still recall the warm, smooth feel of it from when his teacher had first passed it to him—later it had lingered on his finger, then around her neck, becoming the sole witness accompanying them down through the ages.

Qu You sighed beside him. “Science can tell me it was unearthed from the Northern Yin period, but it can never tell me about the two lovers who once relied on each other through it all.”

Zhou Tan laughed softly. “Not even the bamboo strips of history could tell you that.”

Qu You objected. “But poetry can. Don’t believe me? Then let me recite you a line—something like… ‘Gathered fragrance packed close in a fine pillow, holding beauty’s scent, reading it like a bedside scroll.'”

Zhou Tan gave a small, ambiguous “hmph.”

Qu You reached out and touched the wedding ring on her own finger, comparing it to the white jade ring in the display case, saying with some regret, “It seems like this one isn’t quite as fine as the original.”

They finished touring the museum by around six in the evening. As they came down from the sixth floor, they found a small stall set up on the steps below—visitors who left a piece of calligraphy could take home a commemorative museum coin.

The young woman running the stall called out cheerfully, “Come give it a try, sister! You don’t need to know calligraphy.”

Qu You immediately pulled Zhou Tan over. “He can write. Let him do it.”

In the end, she chose a coin stamped with an apricot blossom design.

Zhou Tan, resigned, left a flowing, vigorous line on the ink-scattered rice paper: “Though your bodies and names will both perish, the rivers still flow on, unceasing through eternity.”

【04 · Tianmen Pagoda】

Qu You kept a large white cat named Xiaobai.

He was unlike the one Song Shixuan had once kept—that one, Chiyu Xiaofeilian, had been strikingly beautiful, with pure-colored heterochromatic eyes and a delicate voice.

Qu You’s cat, by contrast, was thoroughly unfriendly, rarely allowing itself to be petted, and would swipe a claw if provoked, hiding away out of stubborn pride even when hurt.

Perhaps because Zhou Tan had a way with cats, Xiaobai was willing to show him a somewhat better face, and though clearly reluctant, would haughtily extend a paw and let him trim its claws.

…And then, stung by the clipping, just as it was about to lash out angrily, Zhou Tan caught its paw.

Qu You pushed the door open and heard Zhou Tan earnestly lecturing the cat. “Don’t be so short-tempered. Have a better disposition.”

She leaned against the doorframe, watching the man and cat, gloating. “So it’s not just me it scratches—I thought he might treat you better, since you happen to share a name.”

Zhou Tan, unfazed, stroked the cat once more. “He does treat me better, actually. If it were you, he wouldn’t let you touch him for three days straight.”

Qu You cursed at the cat bitterly. “You ungrateful creature.”

Then she added, “But it’s just as well Xiaobai isn’t fond of people—we’ll leave him at home. I booked tickets. Let’s go on a two- or three-day trip together.”

“All right,” Zhou Tan agreed gently. “Where to?”

Qu You answered, “Tianmen Pagoda.”

The imperial city had long vanished, buried beneath new soil deposited by the shifting river over generations, but Tingshan Mountain had stood for a thousand years and still remained. Xiuqing Temple had become a popular tourist destination, drawing an endless stream of visitors up the mountain, the long stone steps perpetually scented with incense ash.

Qu You led Zhou Tan around by way of the back mountain, finding a little-used path that wound around to the other side of Tianmen Pagoda.

The pagoda stood on the mountain behind Xiuqing Temple; the area currently open to tourists was a newly built plaza to the north. The spot Qu You had led them to, in contrast, held a massive boulder that served as a natural viewing platform.

There was no direct path from the front plaza to this spot, though climbing here wasn’t prohibited either—likely only staff familiar with the back-mountain trails, or the occasional tourist who’d taken a wrong turn, would ever discover it. It counted as something of a hidden gem.

The wind on the mountain was strong, and Zhou Tan instinctively raised his sleeve to shield her from it, only to suddenly realize he hadn’t worn wide sleeves in ages.

Qu You tugged at his arm. “I brought you here to see the view. Turn around, turn around.”

Below the platform stretched Tingshan Mountain, thick with green pines. The mist that had lingered as they climbed had entirely burned off in the midday sun, leaving the forest lush and verdant, with the faint, distant murmur of voices carrying up.

Zhou Tan let his gaze follow Tingshan Mountain out toward the horizon.

They weren’t far from the inner city here—he could even faintly make out tall buildings in the distance. The imperial city had vanished, but this land remained.

A bell suddenly tolled from the top of Tianmen Pagoda, and birds swept past overhead, keeping pace with the sound.

After watching for a while, Zhou Tan suddenly asked, “Why are you so familiar with the paths up here?”

Qu You answered without thinking. “I lived here for such a long time, of course I know my way around.”

The moment she said it, she realized her mistake, and sure enough, found Zhou Tan gazing deeply at her. Before she could think of a way to cover for herself, she saw him look away, saying mildly, “So when you used to come here before, did you bring my collection of poems with you?”

Yes.

Wait—how did he know that?

Before she could puzzle it through, Zhou Tan gave a faint smile and touched her hair (he seemed to have taken a particular liking to touching her hair lately). “Back then… during those days in Lin’an, when I was gravely ill and drifting in and out of consciousness, I had all sorts of chaotic dreams. At the time they seemed utterly absurd, but thinking back on them now, they turned out to be…”

He didn’t finish.

Hearing this, Qu You couldn’t hold back—her eyes reddened, and she threw her arms around him.

Zhou Tan’s fingers threaded through her hair, gentle and infinitely reverent. “We… missed so many bright spring seasons together, before.”

She thought of the snow, of the crimson palace walls and the winter nights, of that crane cloak still hanging in her closet, as pristine as ever.

He thought of the apricot blossoms, of the skies over Lin’an and the Song of Golden Threads, of the moment arrows had rained down beyond the city walls, of her falling from the tower.

“I love spring… that’s why I named that poetry collection Chuntan—Spring Sandalwood.”

“So do I. Because we first met in spring.”

Not that bleak, snowy night when a cloak was given.

Not the wary, hurried glance beside a folding screen.

It was the world-shaking glance before the Flower Dawn Festival, apricot blossoms filling her hair.

Zhou Tan wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and together they sat on the high platform in the mountains, from the sun hanging high overhead until it sank below the horizon.

Qu You’s eyes ached from crying, and the setting sun made it even harder to keep them open. She simply reached out, greedy for that golden light, murmuring, “The mountain air is lovely at dusk, and birds fly home together.”

There is truth in this, but words fail to explain it.

The next day she came down with a mild fever and began dreaming chaotically again. Zhou Tan took her to get an IV drip; through the haze, she saw him holding her hand the entire time, and only then could she rest easy enough to sleep.

Their return trip was delayed three or four days as a result. When Qu You finally came home, glowing with health, she’d expected the cat to greet her at the door with its usual disdain.

Instead, the cat acted as though it hadn’t seen her in a lifetime, bursting into tears the moment the door opened and rushing over to rub frantically against her legs, making a soft, needy sound she’d never heard from it before.

Qu You immediately checked the cat’s food and water bowls—both full.

Zhou Tan reached out to pet it from behind, but the cat completely ignored him, focused entirely on clinging to Qu You, only starting to purr contentedly once she’d picked it up by the scruff.

After coaxing it for quite a while, the cat finally, reluctantly, left her arms and settled onto the table to focus on grooming itself.

Zhou Tan sat at the table, chin in hand, watching the cat. Just as he was about to say something, Qu You walked past him and said coolly, “You two must be related. Same exact temperament.”

She pushed open the balcony door and heard Zhou Tan behind her, grumbling to himself in self-reflection. “…I don’t think I’m quite that needy, am I?”

【05 · Lin’an】

Oh, wonder—is he still flying?

He rises, and yet his wings are still

What is it that lifts him up

What now is his goal, his pull, his rein

Like the stars and eternity itself

He now dwells far above the reach of life

Flying so high, who says

He is only floating

Oh, albatross

An eternal impulse thrusts me skyward

I miss you, and for this

My tears flow endlessly, yes, I love you

Qu You sat by the window, reciting Nietzsche’s poem; the hotel projection had reached the end of the film.

Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries.

Zhou Tan watched, utterly absorbed.

Qu You closed her journal, crossed the thick, plush carpet barefoot, wrapped her arms around his neck, and yawned. “Did you understand it?”

A 1950s Swedish art film—the Chinese subtitles came only in traditional characters, but fortunately Zhou Tan found traditional characters even easier to read than simplified ones.

He nodded, reaching out to pull her close by the waist, and casually plucked an unfinished strawberry from the table, holding it to her lips. “Mm. Sleepy?”

“Not sleepy,” Qu You said, burying her face in his shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

“Haven’t you already seen it?”

“I want to know what you took away from it.”

Zhou Tan considered for a moment, then said succinctly, “It’s about a man of extreme rationality.”

“Mm… it’s actually the director’s own autobiography,” Qu You said. The screen had gone dark, slowly and silently rolling through the credits. In the dim light, she tilted her head up and shared a soft, damp kiss with Zhou Tan. “He’s looking back on his life, dreaming that he has many dreams, and then regretting, reflecting.”

Zhou Tan’s voice was low, his warm breath brushing across her face. He hadn’t burned incense in a long while now, yet somehow that scent of still water still lingered about him. “Coldness, numbness, and excessive rationality can never bring a fulfilling life.”

Qu You laughed. “Good, as long as you know that.”

“What you were reciting just now was…”

“Nietzsche’s love poem.”

I wanted to watch the most rational man in the world regret, in a film, and then read to him the one and only love poem ever written by the maddest man in the world.

The screen glowed pale white; Zhou Tan opened his eyes and saw his beloved’s lips, flushed and moist from his kiss.

“Don’t become a madman. But don’t be purely rational either.”

If love demands restraint from both, then lovers know that even restraint can bring joy.

Outside the window, the sound of a bell tolling rang out.

Qu You laughed.

“Peace and health in the new year.”

Zhou Tan pushed open the window; fireworks flickered briefly against the sky, and the city of Hangzhou was strung with lanterns and lights, a scene of flourishing peace.

“If only they could all see what the world looks like now…”

Qu You heard Zhou Tan murmur beside her ear.

“…that would be enough. That was our wish, from when we were young.”

To establish the heart of Heaven and Earth, to secure the destiny of the people, to carry forward the lost teachings of past sages.

To bring about an age of eternal peace.

To walk the path is to arrive.

The countless fragments of ourselves scattered through history have gathered, bit by bit, into the present day.

Zhou Tan said softly, “Peace and health in the new year.”

Author’s Note: I really want strawberries QAQ The modern-era extras are done~ tomorrow we’re back to the historical setting hehe