Mu Fulan set foot on the road west. She left the Central Plains, passed through the Western Gate, crossed the vast expanse of Hexi, and followed the old road she had once traveled, passing in turn through Jialin Garrison, Yanzhi Garrison, Heli Garrison, and Dudeng Mountain. After crossing ridge upon ridge of mountains and passes, she pressed on several hundred more li to the west, and on this day at last reached the foot of the Tianshan.

She was now only the last two or three days of road from her destination. And the season, which had been autumn when she set out, had since turned to winter.

All along the way, what she saw differed from what she remembered of that journey years ago. She recalled that when she had traveled west back then, desolation had stretched in every direction, with few signs of human life. But this time around, this ancient road — which had once been swallowed up by wind and drifting sand — still saw, even in weather like this, the occasional caravan of merchants and traders making their way between the Western Regions and Hexi. And along the road, waystation stops had appeared here and there, offering supplies and rest to the traveling merchants and their camel trains.

At midday, the snow grew heavier and heavier. As they passed a waystation along the road, the guide said that this was the last place to shelter and rest before reaching Jincheng.

Many among the attendants were visibly weary, and Mu Fulan ordered a halt. Fires were lit and food was heated. While they rested, she suddenly heard from inside a nearby tent the sound of a woman’s anguished moans.

The tent was made of thick, sturdy oxhide. Outside it, a camel train of several dozen animals had been unloaded, with more than a dozen wagons and a retinue of over a hundred servants — all dressed in foreign style — indicating a wealthy household of great means. It appeared that this party had also been stopped here for some time. Yet despite the wind and snow, the servants had not taken shelter inside the tent but were gathered around it outside, as if in anxious anticipation of something.

There was still half a day before nightfall. The rest was done, and Mu Fulan was about to set off again. Seeing this scene, she couldn’t help but pause, tilting her head to listen more closely to the woman’s faint, broken moans. Just then the tent flap burst open, and a broad-browed, high-nosed man in his thirties came running out. He dropped to his knees in the snow with a heavy thud, his face drained of color. He lifted his eyes to the sky, bowing his head in prayer again and again.

By now Mu Fulan had a fairly clear idea of what was happening inside the oxhide tent. Though she was in a hurry to be on her way — barely able to contain her longing to reach her destination as soon as possible — something close to instinct made her speak, directing her guide to go and inquire, saying, “Go tell him that I may be able to help.”

The guide did as he was told and exchanged a few words with the man, who snapped his head around to look in her direction.

On this entire westward journey, Mu Fulan and her party had all traveled in plain dress, and she had told people only that she was searching for someone. Even the guide she had hired in Hexi did not know her identity, let alone this man from the Western Regions. When he heard from the guide that she might be able to help, a look of desperate joy broke across his face. He scrambled up from the snow in one motion and came running toward her, his hands moving expressively as he spoke rapidly in a language she could not understand.

The guide explained quickly, “He is one of the wealthiest merchants in the kingdom of Juvilra, by the name of Daman. He has long admired the Eastern Empire, and at the start of the year — for both trade and the sake of seeing it for himself — he followed the royal envoys to the capital. His wife is the daughter of a Juvilra high priest and can speak our language, so he brought her along. He spent more than half a year in the capital and wanted to return home before the mountain passes were sealed by snow. When he reached this point on the road, his wife went into labor, and so they stopped here. She has been in labor since last night, and the child has still not come.”

Mu Fulan told her attendants to continue resting, and went into the tent at once.

On the ground inside lay a young woman in her mid-twenties. Her belly was enormous, the ground soaked with blood. She appeared utterly spent, barely clinging to life. Several serving women stood around her, faces ashen with alarm, all speaking over one another in agitation. When they saw Mu Fulan enter, they looked on her as if she were a lifesaving deity and hastily made way.

Mu Fulan washed her hands, exchanged a few brief words with the woman in labor, then spoke in a gentle, soothing voice to reassure her and told her not to be afraid. She began to massage the woman’s abdomen to help the delivery along, and told someone to give the woman some sugar water and food. Once the woman had regained a measure of strength, Mu Fulan showed her how to gather and direct her effort.

Her calm, steady voice seemed to carry a power that settled those who heard it. The woman gradually found her composure and did exactly as Mu Fulan guided.

Half a day later, the man anxiously waiting outside the tent heard the cry of an infant from within, followed by a servant woman rushing out to tell him that his wife had given birth to a boy, and that both mother and child were safe. He was overwhelmed with joy, and turned to throw himself back down in the snow, offering thanks to the heavens. He then immediately ordered his people to bring out wine and slaughter a sheep and light a fire in celebration.

A great cheer rose from outside the tent.

Night had already fallen, and the snow had not yet stopped. Mu Fulan, knowing this day was lost for traveling, had already had her own tents pitched and planned to spend the night here and set out again at first light.

This waystation, which had been growing quieter by the day as the mountain passes drew closer to being sealed, was alive with noise and warmth that evening. Despite the howling wind and snow, fires blazed at every turn. Tents had been raised all around, and amid the sounds of laughter and good cheer, the smell of food drifted through the air.

Daman was overwhelmed with gratitude toward Mu Fulan and had his people bring over wine and roast lamb in a constant stream. Mu Fulan passed the food along to her attendants. She herself, once she had changed her clothes in her own tent, went back without stopping to rest into Daman’s wife’s tent to give her instructions for the period after childbirth.

The woman’s face was radiant with happiness as she nodded again and again.

Mu Fulan looked at the tiny infant sleeping peacefully in her arms. Though she herself was still weary, her mood seemed to have caught something of that warmth, and gradually grew brighter and lighter.

Daman followed her into the tent and, appearing to have drunk more than a little wine, spoke at length to Mu Fulan with a ruddy and glowing face. His wife translated for him: “Madam, my husband says that looking at the size of your party, you do not seem to be traders — how did you come to be in this place? In a few more days the road will be buried in snow, and the pass closed, and it will not be open again until spring at the earliest. If you are also heading to the Western Regions, you are welcome to travel with us. My husband has many connections far and wide — you have done us such a great service, and he is very willing to help you in any way he can.”

Mu Fulan smiled, gently stroked the baby’s soft hair, and was about to speak — when she heard another burst of cheering from outside, as though a group of travelers had arrived and were passing through. From the commotion, it sounded as if not only were these people known to Daman’s party, but also held in considerable esteem.

Along with the cheering, one of Daman’s servants came running to the tent entrance and shouted a few words. A look of delight came over Daman’s face. He quickly excused himself from Mu Fulan and strode briskly out.

The woman quickly apologized on her husband’s behalf: “Madam, please do not think ill of him for being so rude. Word has come that the city master of Jincheng is returning to the city and has passed by this way. Madam, you may not know: my husband’s camel train was once set upon by mounted raiders from the north in the Tianshan, and was rescued by him. It is not only our kingdom of Juvilra — merchants from Dayuan, Anxi, Gumo, and other kingdoms have also been under his protection, and because of him they travel between East and West with peace of mind. Everyone speaks of him with a reverence bordering on the divine. It is quite unexpected that he should pass through tonight — my husband is eager to pay his respects, which is why he has left you so abruptly…”

The woman was still offering her apologies, but Mu Fulan was no longer paying attention to what she was saying. She pressed close to the curtained partition separating the inner and outer sections of the tent, held her breath, and tilted her head to listen.

The lively atmosphere outside seemed to rise to a new height with the arrival of this group. The Juvilran merchant appeared to be pressing a cup of wine upon the newcomer, trying to persuade him to stay and share in the joy of his newly born son.

Amid the noise filling her ears, a burst of a man’s laughter drifted faintly to her.

The man who had laughed seemed to be in excellent spirits. After the laughter, he continued to speak with Daman — what he said, she could not make out — but this voice, how could she possibly have failed to notice it?

All this long journey west, her mood had long since ceased to be what it was at the start — that tormented sense of the distance being too great and the mountains too many. The closer she drew to her destination, the more a feeling like a shy and trembling nervousness had crept over her — the kind that came with nearing home, wondering whether everything remained as it once was. That feeling wound itself more and more tightly around her heart, refusing to be shaken loose.

She had not imagined that it would be so soon — tonight — that before she had fully gathered herself, she would encounter him here, so suddenly and without warning.

Her heart pounded like a drum. She closed her eyes and slowly breathed out a long breath, then reached out and carefully lifted the edge of the tent flap, opening the barest crack, and looked out.

The sky above was pitch black. A north wind howled. In the swirling snow, at a cluster of campfires a dozen or more zhang away, she saw a man wrapped in a snow cape, his face covered with a full, dense beard. Though surrounded by people pressing close on all sides, his upright, towering figure stood out plainly from the crowd — one look and the eye went straight to him.

That man took a cup of hot wine from Daman’s hands, drained it in one swallow, and said with a laugh, “Congratulations to you — and many thanks for the invitation to stay. I was passing through this place tonight and saw all this liveliness, and so I came to have a look. My camp is just up there at the foot of the mountain ahead — not far at all. Stay with your wife — I will not intrude further. When I have time another day, I will come to pay a proper visit.”

He stepped out from the crowd gathered around him and walked toward the mounted soldiers still waiting for him along the road. He mounted his horse, clasped his hands in farewell to Daman who had come to see him off, and then urged his horse forward and continued on his way.

Deep in her chest, a fire blazed up without warning.

Mu Fulan burst out of the tent. She looked toward that figure moving away ahead of her and called out his name:

“Xie Changgeng —”

The north wind rushing through the mountain passes in the distance caught her cry and howled fiercely above her head.

He did not hear her. His figure was about to disappear into the darkness of the snow-filled night ahead.

“Xie Changgeng —”

She called again, facing into the north wind, and without a thought for anything else began to run desperately toward that retreating figure.

She caught up to the roadside — but the person ahead had already vanished from sight. She plunged on through the snow, and one foot sank into a drift beside the road that was deeper than her shin. Her foot was caught, and she could not pull it free.

“Xie — Chang — Geng —”

She cried out toward that empty expanse of wind and snow ahead, the last call drawn from every last measure of her strength, until her voice broke and turned hoarse — and the wind shredded it, swallowed it whole, as though it had never been.

She could hold back no longer. She covered her face with both hands and slowly, slowly crouched down.

Daman and her attendants came running up and stopped close by, staring in bewildered astonishment at the figure hunched in the snow before them.

“Madam, are you looking for the city master? Do not worry — you go back to the tent, and I will go after him for you!”

Daman immediately called for a horse.

Mu Fulan turned the back of her hand and pressed it against her stinging, swollen eyes. She opened her eyes and stood up.

She shook her head and was about to speak — then stopped.

Ahead of her, a man on horseback broke through the curtain of the night and was riding back this way.

His pace was unhurried. Through the wind and snow he drove his horse slowly back, as though something still held him in some measure of hesitation.

Daman cried out in delighted surprise — “City master!” — and immediately went running toward him. He ran up to the horse, said a few words, then raised his hand and pointed in Mu Fulan’s direction.

The man on horseback followed where his finger pointed, raised his eyes, and looked toward where she stood — and then seemed to be frozen in place by the snow filling the sky, his figure motionless.

In an instant, Mu Fulan’s blood surged hot. She wrenched her foot free from the deep snow with one pull and, into the teeth of the wind, began to walk toward him again with difficulty.

He watched her steadily as she approached, until a great gust of wind swept in and tossed her lightly-clad body like a branch in the snow — swaying, nearly toppling. Then, as if woken from a trance, he swiftly swung down from his horse.

She felt her foot catch in the snow again. She stopped where she was and stood looking at the man now making his way through the snow toward her.

His pace was heavy at first, then gradually quickened. But just as he was nearly at her side, he suddenly halted — stopping a few steps away from her in the snowy ground.

The two of them stood like that, looking at each other. Neither moved forward. Neither spoke.

The north wind drove snow against her face.

“Chang Geng…”

She looked at the man whose features were half-hidden by the dim and snowy light and at last, quietly, called his name. She tried once more to walk toward him — trying to close the last remaining steps between them.

In the instant that she stepped forward, the figure before her shifted. The man was already at her side. He unwrapped the fur cape from his own body and covered her from head to foot in it, then gripped her hand tightly, led her to his horse, and lifted her up into the saddle. Then he mounted behind her and, under the many wide-eyed gazes fixed on them from behind, spurred the horse forward into the night.

His familiar scent filled her every breath. All those sealed-away memories from days long past seemed to stir awake in this moment, one after another, flowing together into a current that came rushing over her in waves. She closed her eyes and curled close within the warmth of his embrace, wrapped in that fur cape, letting him carry her forward into whatever lay ahead — wherever that might be, she neither knew nor cared.

She did not know how much time had passed. At last they arrived somewhere. She was lifted down from the horse and laid flat, and then a hand gently drew away the cape that had been covering her all this time.

She opened her eyes to find herself inside a tent. The endless wind and snow were held at bay outside. In a corner, a warming stove burned. A yak-oil lamp glowed, casting a cluster of its distinctive warm orange light that wrapped everything inside the tent in a golden haze.

Many years ago, on just such a wind-and-snow night at the foot of the Tianshan, she felt she had seen this same lamplight — burning quietly at her side. And the person who had shared a tent with her that night was also here beside her now. The difference was that after carrying her inside and setting her down, he stood looking at her in silence, without a word.

She sat up and looked steadily at the face of the man beside her — a face half-familiar, half-strange now beneath that full, tangled beard — her eyes unblinking.

Under her gaze, he seemed to gradually lose his composure. He slowly raised his hand, touched his face, and said quietly, “I am old now, aren’t I? But you — you still look just as you did before…”

In the instant those words left his lips, tears seemed to snap free like pearls from a broken string and rushed forth, blurring her vision.

She shook her head hard, and threw herself against him, pressing her face to his beard-covered cheek, and wept.

He tried to comfort her, telling her not to cry. She paid no attention and only wept harder. At last she reached out with both arms — like a small child reaching for a hold — wrapped them around his neck, and held on tight, refusing to let go.

He was still for a moment. Then all at once he raised both arms, drew her into his embrace, and tightened his hold, not letting go again.