Thin mist drifted over the distant rolling fields, gradually dispersing in the morning sunlight.

Gray-tiled walls and whitewashed houses appeared through the mulberry groves along the paths between fields. The sound of a shepherd’s flute rose lazily on the air, and along the country lanes, the new mulberry had already begun to put forth green buds.

Li Guo’er came in carrying a bundle of firewood, pushed open the courtyard gate with careful, gentle hands, and set the wood down softly by the wall, stacking it neatly.

He was not careful enough — one piece slipped free and rolled clattering to the foot of the well, startling the tabby cat dozing by the wisteria, which gave a meow and leaped up onto the windowsill, stretching out in a long, indolent yawn.

Li Guo’er hastily pursed his lips and waved his hands to shoo the cat, cursing the senseless creature under his breath.

The master had not yet risen at this hour. Keep the noise down — don’t disturb the master’s sleep.

The tabby cat lazily curled its tail and narrowed its eyes at him.

Then there came the creak of a door, and the bamboo-and-thatch room’s door opened from within.

The master stepped outside, hair gathered with a bamboo pin, wearing only a long robe of bamboo cloth — a sky-blue color washed so often it had gone pale — the hem of the robe stirring faintly in the morning breeze. The cat leaped down from the windowsill and rubbed itself against the master’s feet with a purring, wheedling sound.

“Master, you’re up so early!” Li Guo’er grinned, wiped his hands vigorously on the front of his jacket, and said, “I’ll go fetch you some water!”

“Guo’er — I’ve said before, you don’t need to bring firewood every day.” The master noticed the pile of wood on the ground and frowned slightly, though his expression remained warm. “Old Foster-Uncle Fu manages these tasks. You should be focusing on your studies, not running wild.”

Li Guo’er gave a sheepish smile and stood properly at attention, not daring to show any of his usual lazy airs, only nodding and listening.

The master looked at the boy’s expression, shook his head with a smile, and walked slowly to the well to draw water.

“Let me, let me!” With quick hands and feet, Li Guo’er snatched the ladle, scooped up cool well water in two or three strokes, and held it out. “Master, wash your face!”

The master laughed and flicked a finger against Guo’er’s forehead. “You’re never this sharp when studying!”

Guo’er scratched his head and grinned, watching as the master pushed back his sleeves, cupped the water in both hands, and brought it up to his face.

Drops of water ran down the master’s cheeks and dripped from his temples, dampening them. Mixed in with the black hair at his temples were one or two strands of silver — premature gray had come early.

The morning sunlight fell on the master’s face, catching the glimmer of water and making him look all the more transparently pale, set against the black of his brows, the straightness of his nose, the sharp-cut line of his temples — no matter how one looked, he did not seem to be a person of this smoke-and-fire world, but rather someone who had stepped out of an immortal painting… Li Guo’er stared a little. He noticed a trail of water droplets running down the master’s cheek, on the verge of dripping into the master’s collar, and quickly reached into his breast to pull out the handkerchief he used to wipe his sweat — then stopped himself with a sheepish pause, afraid the handkerchief was too dirty for the master.

The master rinsed his hands as best he could in the water. His fingers, long and slender as if carved, looked lovelier in the water than the finest white jade.

“Master — where do you come from?” Li Guo’er stared up in a blank daze. He had asked this question seven or eight times already, and asked it again now in his oblivious way, already knowing the answer the master always gave—

“I come from the north.”

This time too, the master answered with the same patient smile, not the least bit tired of giving the same answer to the same question.

Li Guo’er knew that no matter how many more times he asked, no further answer would come.

The master was like a riddle — no, too many riddles at once — the kind you could puzzle over for a lifetime and never solve.

Before the master arrived, this village had not produced a single person of learning in over a hundred years.

Though it was a place of beautiful scenery and simple, generous abundance, the mountains and rivers set it apart from the outside world — it had been too long cut off, and strangers rarely made the long journey over the mountains and rivers to this border region in the southern frontier. The men and women of the village, old and young alike, knew only farming, rising with the sun and resting when it set, with only a few among them who could read. Yet the simple folk were content with their modest lot, cheerful and accepting, diligently tilling the land left by their ancestors. Every household had food and clothing aplenty. When an outsider did arrive, it was always an occasion for the whole village, with every family competing to invite the guest in.

Li Guo’er had heard his grandfather say that in the year his grandfather was still alive, he had been hurrying home through heavy rain and had come across the master and his family at the mountain pass outside the village.

The master and his wife were travelling with a white-haired old manservant when they lost their way on a stormy night.

They were clearly exhausted from the long journey, all three of them looking haggard and worn. The master had caught a chill and fallen quite ill, and even needed his wife to steady him as he walked.

Guo’er’s grandfather was a warm-hearted old man. Seeing the master in such a sorry state, he brought the three of them home and sent for the best doctor in the village, who came through the night with medicinal herbs, and barely managed to pull the master and his family through.

The master said his family name was Zhan. He claimed to have traveled from the north with his wife and old manservant, fleeing the war and turmoil there.

The wife, of the Yao clan, was clearly the daughter of a distinguished family — though worn from travel, her beauty was still remarkable, and she carried herself with a manner of great dignity.

The white-haired old manservant was robust and vigorous, with the strength of a man in his prime.

The village had never seen such remarkable people before. Old and young alike held them in reverent admiration.

Yet the most admirable of all was the master.

When he first came — what a figure he was… plain cloth robes, a face pale and haggard with illness, yet a pair of eyes more clear and cold than a mountain spring, and a face no painter of any skill could have rendered. Toward everyone, he was always smiling — his smile warm as the mild breezes of the fourth month, yet within his eyes there was always a sorrow that would not dissolve, as though he had witnessed all the joys and griefs of the world and understood everything.

After the master recovered from his illness, his health still remained fragile, and so he stayed in the village to recuperate.

That stay stretched to seven years.

In the beginning, the master stayed with the Li family. In his spare time he taught Li Guo’er to read and write. When the neighbors found out, they brought their own children over too — word spread from one to ten and from ten to a hundred, and more and more children began arriving to study. The villagers helped build them a proper dwelling with a courtyard. The women taught Mistress Yao how to weave and cook. The men brought firewood and grain. Whenever a family slaughtered a pig or an ox, or caught some game, they would not forget to bring a portion to the master’s household.

The master and Mistress Yao had only one daughter of three years, and both of them were particularly fond of children.

It was often the case that the master would be inside the bamboo-and-thatch room teaching, while Mistress Yao sat quietly on the veranda outside, sewing clothes for the children.

The village children were accustomed to playing on rooftops and over walls, and it was a common thing for clothes to get dirty and torn. Their parents at home thought little of it, letting them do as they pleased.

But the master liked things neat and tidy. The same plain cloth shoes and straw sandals, worn by him, somehow always looked immaculate and spotless.

Every afternoon when the children arrived at the bamboo room, Mistress Yao would always be smiling warmly, doling out sweet cakes to share with everyone. If she spotted a child with muddy hands and feet, or disheveled clothing, she would carefully wash the child’s face and hands clean, then take off the torn outer jacket and sew it up carefully.

Among all the children, there was one called Hutou — just nine years old, tall and sturdy and unruly, always climbing walls, reaching into nests for birds’ eggs, and starting fights all day long. Hutou’s mother had died years ago. At home there was only his father and a younger brother, and no aunt or cousin to look after him. He was forever following him around like a muddy little monkey.

At first he had been dragged along by his father to study, and had slipped off the moment he arrived with no sign of him anywhere. Later, when he discovered there were sweet cakes made by Mistress Yao to be had, he dragged his feet back.

Gradually, Hutou began coming earlier and earlier — often arriving at dawn to hover near Mistress Yao, waiting for her to mend and patch his clothes.

A few times, Li Guo’er had happened to see Hutou deliberately snag his sleeve on the fence outside the house, then run off to find Mistress Yao.

Li Guo’er secretly told Mistress Yao that Hutou was up to mischief… but Mistress Yao only smiled and sighed softly. “Hutou is missing his mother.”

Mistress Yao and the master were both the kindest of people. The master never raised his voice to anyone. Even with the most mischievous and troublemaking children, he never scolded them — yet he could make even the most troublesome little rascals in the village sit quietly and listen to him.

The only one before whom the children dared not misbehave was old Foster-Uncle Fu — ancient and heavyset.

Foster-Uncle Fu was not fond of talking or smiling. He kept his head down and went about his work, never betraying whether he was pleased or displeased. When he looked at people he liked to narrow his eyes, and on the rare occasions he spoke, his voice was unlike anyone else’s — thin, low, and hoarse, and cold in a way that made people reluctant to approach him.

The elders of the village were mostly kindly and gentle — no one had ever seen such a peculiar old man before.

Whenever a child misbehaved at the master’s house, one glimpse of Foster-Uncle Fu was enough to send them shrinking back.

But Li Guo’er was not afraid of Foster-Uncle Fu. On the contrary, his reverence for Foster-Uncle Fu came second only to his reverence for the master.

One night, Guo’er had slipped out through the back door and made an appointment with Hutou to go catch crabs at the riverbank.

At night the crabs in the sandy holes had all crawled out to breathe the air. The river shallows were thick with them — you could grab them up a half-basket at a time.

The bamboo room hadn’t been built yet at that point, and the master and his family were still staying in Li Guo’er’s house.

Foster-Uncle Fu lived in a separate wooden room in the back courtyard.

That night the back door was bolted shut, and Li Guo’er had no choice but to climb over the wall — but his foot slipped, and he tumbled off headfirst.

That kind of fall, while not likely to kill you, would certainly mean a broken and bloody head at the very least.

But Li Guo’er was completely unharmed.

He landed safely and steadily in Foster-Uncle Fu’s arms.

In the blink of an eye — before the climb, there had been not a single soul at the base of the wall.

For Foster-Uncle Fu to catch a half-grown boy was like catching an empty sack — a slight lift, a small push, and the boy was settled lightly and gently on the ground.

Li Guo’er was still dizzy and disoriented. He found himself sitting on the ground, perfectly fine.

Foster-Uncle Fu said not a word, turned, and walked away. In the moonlight, he was still stooped, still white-haired and sparse.

“It’s been raining for days — and now it’s finally cleared,” the master said, wiping his face dry, tilting his head back to look at the sky, and narrowing his eyes with a smile in the sunlight.

Li Guo’er nodded blankly, thinking to himself that rainy days were better — rainy days meant he didn’t have to help his mother air out the cotton bedding.

Then he heard the master laugh. “Guo’er, today we will air the books.”

“Hm?” Guo’er’s face fell the moment he heard it.

But whatever the master said, there was no choice but to obey.

“All right, I’ll go move the books.” Guo’er rolled up his sleeves and made a secret face behind the master’s back.

The master turned toward the room and called in. “A’Yao, bring all my books out — the room has been damp for days…”

The window creaked and swung open. Mistress Yao, her hair only half pinned up, loose-haired and bare of face, propped the window open with one hand while holding a hairpin in the other. She said with a smile, “You make it sound so easy — there are several full chests of them. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for Foster-Uncle Fu to come back before anyone can manage.”

“By the time he finishes fishing and gets back, the sun will be long gone.” The master was unmoved — when he had made up his mind about something, he could be quite childlike in his stubbornness.

Foster-Uncle Fu had taken the master’s young daughter off to fish by the river again and would not return before evening. Mistress Yao could not out-stubborn the master, and so she came out to help. The cat followed at Mistress Yao’s heels, meowing and wheedling. The master carried books out of the bamboo room, Mistress Yao carefully dusted the fallen grime from them and sorted them into categories, and Guo’er with his quick hands and feet carried them in armloads out into the courtyard to lay open in the sun. The three of them each busied themselves with their own tasks, talking and laughing as they went — it was quite a cheerful little scene.

There wasn’t much open space in the courtyard, so the thick volumes of thread-bound books were spread out on stone platforms and stone tables, their pages stirred by the wind in rustling flutters. Faintly through the courtyard drifted the smell of aged paper and pine-soot ink — the whole place carried a fragrance of learning.

The morning sunlight filtered through the old scholar tree in the courtyard, dappling the ground through the branches in shifting patches of light and shadow.

Before they knew it, quite a long while had passed.

The master straightened up, faint perspiration at his temples, his usually pallid cheeks flushed a little from the exertion.

“Let’s take a rest,” said Mistress Yao, taking the books from his hands with a gentle smile.

The master nodded. The two of them met each other’s eyes, and he smiled quietly. “Have I tired you out?”

Mistress Yao smiled without answering, stepped forward, and lifted her sleeve to wipe the sweat from his temples.

He lightly took her hand, gathering her slender fingers into his palm, running his thumb over the faint calluses there.

The hands he remembered had always been like this — bearing the marks of past years of riding and archery, and now of washing and laundry, never smooth or soft as silk, not like the delicate, untouched hands of a girl kept in a boudoir. In the past, he had always felt a quiet regret about this — he had always thought that a woman’s hands should be soft and fragrant, and ought not to be this roughened. In the past…

He smiled faintly to himself, let out a soundless sigh, and dismissed the fragmentary memories that had begun to surface in his mind. He only held his wife’s hand a little more tightly… There was no past. There was no past anymore.

Mistress Yao said nothing, letting him hold her hand in silence, a faint smile at the corners of her lips.

The half-latched courtyard gate gave a soft creak.

Hearing Li Guo’er’s joyful cry — “Hutou, Uncle Luo… Oh, Uncle Luo Second is here too!” — voices at the gate were followed by the hearty laugh of a man with a simple, honest manner. “Is the master at home?”

As the sound of footsteps entered the courtyard, Mistress Yao quickly withdrew her hand, straightened her hair, and turned toward the yard — and saw Hutou being dragged along by his father, with a broad-shouldered, large-framed man of similar features to Hutou’s father at his side, both hands carrying gifts wrapped in red paper.

The courtyard was spread all over with books, leaving barely any place to step. Mistress Yao quickly ushered the guests inside to sit down.

Hutou’s father hung back in the courtyard, rubbing his hands together and fumbling for words. “Master, I… brought Hutou today to thank you…”

This rough-mannered man was not good with words. He had always been exceedingly deferential in the master’s presence, and today he looked especially flustered and at a loss.

“Brother Luo, what is this — you’ve shown us such kindness and taken care of us in so many ways. There’s no need for such formality.” Mistress Yao smiled warmly.

The master said little either — only gave a slight nod, his manner a touch distant.

Hutou, too, was acting out of character, awkwardly hiding behind his father, his face sulky and puffed up with grievance.

The sturdy, middle-aged man standing to the side bent at the waist in a respectful bow to the master. “This one is Luo Second. These past years, many thanks to the master for the trouble taken over Hutou.”

“This is my younger brother — been away all these years running trade business. Just got home yesterday, and came straight to pay his respects to you, Master.” Luo Da said with nervous, placating laughter. Luo Second had a weathered, experienced look about him — his manner and bearing carried more alertness and ease than those of the mountain folk, as was to be expected of someone who had traveled widely and seen much of the world. Toward the master he too was respectful and courteous.

“No need for ceremony.” The master’s expression was tranquil. He raised a hand slightly in return.

Mistress Yao glanced at the master, then smiled at the Luo brothers. “I heard from Guo’er — Brother Luo Second has come back this time to take Hutou to the city to learn a trade?”

“That’s the plan.” Luo Second nodded, glancing at Hutou, and let out a breath. “The boy lost his mother young, and by nature he’s always been unruly. But these past few years following you, Master, he learned to read and write, which is something. My older brother thought it would be good to have him come with me, see something of the outside world. I think the same — it’s no use staying in the mountains all his life. The times are better now, people’s lives more peaceful, not like the chaos of old. Who knows, if the boy goes out, maybe he’ll carve out some kind of fortune for himself…”

The master’s brow creased slightly. He said nothing, letting his gaze pass lightly across Luo Second’s face.

Under that one brief look, Luo Second found that all the words he had carefully prepared suddenly would not come out.

The atmosphere cooled for a moment. Mistress Yao, too, fell silent.

“I’m not going. I want to stay and study with the master!” Hutou suddenly spoke up, breaking the awkwardness between the adults.

The master turned his eyes toward the boy, seeming about to smile, but a trace of wistfulness pulled at the corner of his lips instead.

Mistress Yao looked at Hutou. Her smile was full of gentleness, and she sighed softly. “Your father’s plan is a good one too. It’s just that the master… will miss you.”

Hutou lowered his face and said nothing.

Luo Da started rubbing his hands again, looking for all the world as though he himself had done something wrong and offended the master, increasingly unsure what to do with himself.

Luo Second only felt that the master’s cool, calm gaze seemed to see straight through everything in the world, leaving nowhere to hide.

“Hutou is not yet ten. When he goes out into the world from now on, let him always remember to keep up with his studies and not let them fall by the wayside.” Mistress Yao crouched down and straightened Hutou’s jacket, genuinely reluctant to let him go.

The master turned his back on them, facing outward in silence, looking at the books in the courtyard, lost in thought.

Mistress Yao could only give the Luo brothers an apologetic smile.

But the master’s quiet voice came at last.

“The world outside — is it truly better?”

Luo Second, hearing the master speak, relaxed with relief and hurried to say with a smile, “Master has long lived in the mountains and may not know the way of things out there. Since the current sage emperor founded the dynasty, a general amnesty was declared throughout the realm, taxes and conscription were reduced, devastated border and abandoned lands were redistributed and settlers were restored… People who had fled their homes in the chaos have largely returned to their home regions and settled down, tending their farms diligently. The times grow better year by year.”

The master kept his back turned, still saying nothing.

Luo Second glanced at Mistress Yao, saw her head bowed in silence, and continued, “In the old days, children of humble families had no path forward unless they joined the army. Now the sage emperor has established the Changqiu Offices in every region, selecting worthy and capable people from common backgrounds, and many sons of poor families have been chosen to go to the capital…”

Luo Da listened with an expression that was half understanding and half bewilderment, and asked excitedly, “What’s a Changqiu Office? Is it a temple? If they’re selecting people to go there, would they become monks?”

“Of course not monks.” Luo Second was equal parts exasperated and amused, yet could not quite explain why it was called the “Changqiu Office.”

But they heard the master, hands clasped behind his back, say in a quiet, measured voice, “Changqiu is the name of the Han dynasty Empress’s palace. Used in an official capacity, it refers to those who serve in proximity to the Empress — the officials in attendance at the central palace, trusted persons of the Emperor and Empress, who convey edicts and oversee affairs.”

The Luo brothers had an instant of understanding.

“Master stays at home and yet knows the affairs of the world — truly a man of great discernment!” Luo Second marveled.

The master turned slightly, and something like a dry, bittersweet smile crossed his face. “If it is truly as you say… that person… has not done badly at all.”

Luo Second did not quite catch the meaning, only understood that the master seemed to mean approval, and took heart, launching into a flowing account… starting from the founding emperor’s establishment of the dynasty, on to the submission of the northern tribes, then telling of the grand occasion of Prince Jiangxia’s return to court. He had never been to the capital himself, and was only repeating things heard at secondhand, each time he retold it embellished further — describing Prince Jiangxia as though he were an immortal descended from Heaven.

He left Luo Da, Hutou, and Li Guo’er completely wide-eyed.

Luo Second talked himself dry, swallowed, clapped his hands together, and announced with a raised brow, “After Prince Jiangxia returned to court, he was immediately appointed Grand Tutor.”

“What is a Grand Tutor?” Li Guo’er interrupted.

“The teacher of the Crown Prince — the one who instructs the Crown Prince in his studies,” Luo Second replied. As he spoke, he glanced toward the master who stood with hands behind his back, with an expression of great reverence.

“And what is the Crown Prince?” Hutou asked blankly.

Luo Second started, not yet having time to answer, when Mistress Yao cut in with a laugh, “All right, all right — you could talk for three days and three nights and never finish all this. The hour isn’t early anymore — why not stay and have a simple meal with us?”

The Luo brothers hurried to decline, but Mistress Yao would hear none of it, and pulled Hutou and Li Guo’er off to help with cooking.

The master also smiled and urged them to stay, his manner much warmer now than it had been before.

Seeing they could not politely refuse, Luo Second quickly produced his wrapped gifts and offered them with both hands. “This is a small token of gratitude from us brothers — to thank the master and Mistress for all the days of teaching and care. The goods are a bit plain, but we hope Mistress will not think poorly of them.”

Mistress Yao refused to accept, telling him to take them back and make Hutou a new set of clothes.

Luo Second also smiled. “Please don’t think poorly of us, Mistress — it’s just that these two bolts of silk are rather plain. But since the country is still in a mourning period, we can’t wear red or green, so this is what we could manage…”

Mistress Yao paused. “A mourning period?”

“Yes, it’s only been half a year since the national mourning began — we haven’t yet completed the mourning observance.” Luo Second explained. “It’s remote up in the mountains, with no news getting through — a great event like a national mourning would naturally not have reached the village. No wonder neither of you has heard.”

Seeing Mistress Yao’s expression go blank, Luo Second was about to explain when he heard the master suddenly speak. “Is it the Grand Empress Dowager who has passed?”

Luo Second shook his head. “The Grand Empress Dowager passed away several years ago.”

Mistress Yao’s voice came out sharp and abrupt: “Then it is…”

“The Empress Jingyi.” Luo Second sighed. “They say beautiful women are fated to short lives — yet who would have thought that even one who had been honored as the mother of the nation…”

His words were not yet finished when behind him came a clatter and crash —

The master had been standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, behind him a full rack of books not yet sorted through. For some reason, he had knocked against them.

That pile of dusty old books tumbled to the ground in disarray, sending a cloud of fine dust straight into the nostrils. The main door of the room was standing open, and just at that moment a gust of wind swept through, setting every book and page on the ground fluttering and rustling.

It was not known what they had been tucked inside, but a sheaf of old manuscript pages fell out and scattered, caught by the wind and sent swirling up through the air — white paper with black ink marks, flying apart in all directions.

Guo’er reacted the fastest. He cried out, “Oh no!” and ran to pick them up.

Those yellowed pages, thin as a breath, curled and flipped in the wind, flying out through the door, scattered even further by the breeze the moment they got outside.

“Master, master — this one’s blown into the well!” Li Guo’er cried out in a panic from the courtyard.

He turned back — only to see the master in his thin, plain robe, standing exactly where he had been, one hand suspended halfway up, frozen and motionless, staring vacantly at the scattered pages tumbling through the air, his eyes utterly empty. Luo Second called out to him, but the master’s gaze seemed to fix on something in the distance — past the courtyard wall, past the fence, past the drifting clouds on the far horizon… The sunlight of mid-morning, pouring in through the window, was white and blinding.

The light fell full upon the master’s face. There was not the slightest trace of color in it.

Mistress Yao stood frozen for a moment, the four words “Empress Jingyi” circling and echoing in her ears… No matter how she thought about it, it did not seem real — she felt as though she must be dreaming. When she collected herself, the scene before her eyes was still the same as a moment before: books and pages scattered across the floor, white paper tumbling loose in the air… One page, spinning in a slow spiral, brushed lightly past her temple and drifted to the ground before the man on the other side of the room.

He still stood in a vacant, rigid daze, as though blind to everything before him.

Mistress Yao opened her mouth, wanting to call his name — but the sound caught in her throat.

Then at last he moved — slowly bending, reaching down to pick up the page at his feet.

It was right there beneath his eyes, within arm’s reach — yet his hand shook and trembled, and several times he could not grasp that yellowed single page.

Mistress Yao could bear it no longer. She stepped quickly forward, bent down, and picked up the page.

He reached for it and grasped air. The hand he had extended hung there in midair, forgotten.

Mistress Yao placed the page in his hand, letting him hold it… his hand trembled, and the page fell to the floor again.

Before Mistress Yao could reach out to steady him, he had gripped the doorframe and slowly pulled himself upright, then began to walk outside, one step at a time.

“Master!” Luo Second called out, baffled.

He did not look back. His step seemed a little unsteady. As he crossed the threshold, his body lurched and swayed.

Luo Second moved to help him — but Mistress Yao’s voice came softly, “Don’t.”

Luo Second turned back to see Mistress Yao had sunk to the floor, her face drained of color, holding a faint, lingering smile at the corners of her lips. “Don’t disturb him.”

Hutou and Luo Da, standing rooted to the spot, only now came back to themselves.

Luo Da did not know what his brother had said wrong. He flushed red with mortification, more and more at a loss.

Hutou crouched down and picked up the page, then held it out timidly to Mistress Yao. “Mistress Yao, please don’t cry.”

Mistress Yao startled, turned her eyes to Hutou, and smiled. “Why would I cry…”

Before the words were finished, she suddenly felt the warmth of something wet on her face.

She took the page. The brushwork on it was hurried and fragile — it had been written in the time just after he first arrived here, recovering from his serious illness:

The swallow takes its flight, its paired wings dipping and rising. This young woman goes to her new home, I send her far across the open fields. I look back, straining my eyes— and weep until the tears fall like rain.

The swallow takes its flight, wheeling up and gliding down. This young woman goes to her new home, I would escort her far away. I look back, straining my eyes— I stand and weep.

The swallow takes its flight, its voice rising and falling. This young woman goes to her new home, far to the south I send her on her way. I look back, straining my eyes— My heart is truly burdened with grief.

Zhongshu, so capable and devoted, her heart deep and still as a pool. Always gentle, always gracious, careful and quiet in all she did. I think of what my lord commanded— to hearten and sustain me in my solitude.