Whenever Yan He went to war, Xia Chengxiu would wait for him at home. From one person waiting, it became two, but in the end, what arrived was tragic news.

In the first year after Yan He’s departure, everyone thought Xia Chengxiu would be drowned in tears and grief every day, but what she displayed was an alarming calmness.

She took good care of Muxia, and Lin Shuanghe often came to visit. Xia Chengxiu would still smile, handling her affairs methodically, except sometimes when she awoke at night, she would unconsciously try to reach for the person beside her, until her hand touched the cold bedding, seemingly only then realizing that the person who had kept her warm was no longer there. Eventually, she gradually fell silent.

Five years after Yan He’s departure, Commander Yan and Madam Yan actively encouraged Xia Chengxiu to remarry. At her age, she wasn’t considered old, and it wasn’t unheard of for widows to remarry in the capital. With her gentle and graceful temperament, and as Lord Xia’s daughter, there might be good matches among those proposing. She politely declined.

Xia Chengxiu said, “I have Muxia, and that’s enough for me.”

A new place called “Yongxu Hall” opened in the capital, and Xia Chengxiu often went to help out. She filled her life to the brim, continuing to live without Yan He with grace. He Yan frequently came to talk with her. Xia Chengxiu knew she was worried about her, but from childhood to adulthood, she had never been the type to make others worry. Just as when Yan He first saw her, she never let herself be taken advantage of.

Ten years after Yan He’s departure, Yan Muxia had grown into a young boy. His features greatly resembled Yan He’s, though with an added touch of refinement. He was already skilled with the spear. He Yan and Xiao Jue would come to guide his swordsmanship whenever they had time. He often challenged Xiao Jue, tying his hair in a high ponytail, holding a silver spear, saying, “Commander Xiao, in a few years, you will certainly fall defeated at my hands.”

The outcome, of course, was being thrown into a tree by Xiao Jue. However, though he couldn’t defeat Xiao Jue, he found his revenge on Xiao Yao under the pretext of practice, a case of “daughter paying for father’s debt.”

Fifteen years after Yan He’s departure, Yan Muxia had a girl he liked.

The young man was staring at something in his hand when his mother entered. He hurriedly hid the sachet the girl had given him. Xia Chengxiu smiled knowingly and sat beside him.

“You like this girl, don’t you?” she asked.

Yan Muxia instinctively retorted, “Who says I like her?” Yet his ears turned red.

Xia Chengxiu stroked his head: “Then remember to be good to her.”

The young man pretended to be composed, turning his gaze away with a flushed face, and said without much conviction, “Hmph.”

Twenty years after Yan He’s departure, Yan Muxia married the daughter of the Minister of Revenue—the very girl he had liked at fifteen—and they had a daughter named Yan Baosei, with the childhood name Niaoniao.

Yan Muxia was good to Niaoniao and her mother. Years ago, rumors in the capital said that Returning Virtue Lieutenant General Yan Nanguang was henpecked. Now, seeing how Yan Muxia treated his wife and daughter, people realized it was like father, like son—a continuation of the same line.

Niaoniao looked like her mother and was closest to her grandmother, Xia Chengxiu. Her temperament was neither as spirited as Yan Muxia’s nor as lively as her mother’s. Others said she was extremely similar to Xia Chengxiu in her younger days—gentle, calm, soft yet strong.

Twenty-five years after Yan He’s departure, five-year-old Niaoniao was playing in the mansion and found a cloth package from under her grandfather’s old bed.

Yan He’s study had remained untouched all these years, maintained in its original state, cleaned daily by Xia Chengxiu herself—a practice she had kept up for over twenty years. Without notice, Niaoniao had slipped in. Being small, she crawled to the innermost part of the small couch in the study and found a treasure wrapped in red cloth. After some thought, Niaoniao brought the cloth package to Xia Chengxiu like a precious gift.

After so many years, seeing something left by Yan He again made Xia Chengxiu’s hand tremble as she touched the red cloth. She opened the package as sunlight streamed in through the window, making her squint slightly. After so many years, she had aged, and her eyes were not as clear as before. After a while, she finally saw clearly that it was a book titled “Joyful Travelogue.”

The book had been stored for a very long time; its pages had completely yellowed, and having been kept in the dark, it had a musty, damp smell. Niaoniao had long since been attracted by the orioles outside and had run out. Xia Chengxiu’s gaze lingered on the pages for a long time, until she finally remembered that spring day years ago when she had accompanied her cousin to the Si River for an outing and had lost that book.

She was only sixteen then, in the prime of her youth. It was then, in spring, with kites entangled over the Si River, that the young man had decisively cut the strings, breaking the thread of affection from the girl opposite him, decisive as an unfeeling villain. Yet turning around, he had picked up the travelogue she had left behind and treasured it all these years.

She slowly opened the book and was immediately stunned.

On the title page, at some unknown time, a line of small characters had been secretly written.

“Flowers deep, willows shady. Through willows and blossoms I seek your sound. Your heart betrays my heart.”

The handwriting was firm and bold, clearly a man’s writing. It was not unfamiliar to her—it was Yan He’s handwriting.

Time had passed in an instant. For a moment, it seemed as if she could traverse the years and see the arrogant young man in silver robes with a ponytail, sitting at his desk, irritably biting his brush handle, almost gritting his teeth as he wrote these verse lines full of grievance and accusation on the title page. Like a forsaken woman bitterly reproaching a heartless lover.

Who could have imagined Yan He would do such a thing?

Xia Chengxiu was stunned for a moment, then burst into laughter.

Sunlight fell gently on her hair, blurring the few white strands that had appeared. Her smile was like a flower, like a sixteen-year-old girl falling in love for the first time, full of sweetness and joy.

That night, she saw Yan He.

Just as he had been many years ago, he wore a brand-new silver robe, his demeanor arrogant and flamboyant, standing before her. She wore a thin, goose-yellow dress, graceful and elegant, standing before him, her tone calm as she questioned, “Why did you take my book?”

The young man’s originally haughty expression quickly changed, confusion emerging in an instant, yet he still tried hard to maintain composure, coughing lightly and saying, “Since I found it, it’s mine.”

“And you scribbled all over it,” she gently pointed out his misdeed.

Yan He’s face reddened further, defending himself, “That’s not scribbling.”

“If not scribbling, then what is it?”

“It’s—” he irritably flipped his ponytail, his tone somewhat defiant yet with a barely perceptible hint of grievance in the final syllable, “It means exactly what you think it means!”

Xia Chengxiu stared at him without speaking.

Like a paper tiger, he asked, “Why—why are you looking at me like that?”

Xia Chengxiu couldn’t help but laugh. Yan He looked at her, not knowing how to respond. After a while, as if infected by Xia Chengxiu’s laughter, he also began to smile, hesitantly extending his hand, wanting to hold Xia Chengxiu’s hand—

“Bang!”

The wind blew the window loudly, and Xia Chengxiu opened her eyes. There was no Yan He; the bed beside her was empty. She silently gazed at the canopy for a long while, then slowly sat up and got out of bed barefoot.

It was deep into the night, and the floor was cold.

This was the twenty-fifth spring after Yan He’s departure. She awoke from her dream, unable to sleep from sorrow, slowly sitting on the floor, burying her head in her knees. For the first time in all these years, she wept silently.

Days pass slowly—each day is long; days pass quickly—a lifetime passes in the blink of an eye.

Thirty years after Yan He’s departure, Xia Chengxiu passed away from illness.

Her children and grandchildren kept vigil at her bedside. This woman had lived a life of calm gentleness, always composed and graceful. In her final moments, she merely handed a book to Yan Muxia, instructing him to bury her together with Yan He.

When the coffin was laid to rest, it was a beautiful, sunny day. Kites filled the sky over the Si River, and peonies bloomed in passionate red, just like that day many years ago when he had walked along the willow-lined embankment, bent down to pick up that travelogue, and unwittingly left behind a young heart full of joy.