During those few days, First Aunt-by-Marriage went to the younger son incessantly, weeping and pleading. What she said, I could more or less guess.

First Uncle was of frail constitution, and his eldest son’s health was also not strong. Moreover, they had yet to produce any grandsons. The first branch of the family had only the younger son as their sole reliable pillar.

Whereas our second branch — father and son both — were not only vigorous and in their prime, but had enjoyed remarkably smooth and flourishing official careers, with sons and grandsons multiplying in abundance. Should anything ever happen in the future… and after all, the old Duke himself had originally been a son of the second branch.

In the end, the younger son was persuaded. With a listless and defeated expression, he came before the old Duke and said himself: “I am willing to marry the young woman from the Han Family.”

The old Duke’s face showed not the slightest ripple of emotion. He smiled and said: “Very well. Grandfather will send someone to make the betrothal proposal on your behalf.”

Everyone filed out one by one. I was the last to leave, wanting to carry away my little daughter who had fallen asleep in the adjoining room. Just before I stepped through the door, I clearly heard a soft, low, bitter laugh, and a quiet, gentle sigh — “Again like this… still the same as always…”

I immediately turned to look back. I saw the old Duke holding a scroll in one hand by the window, but his eyes were gazing outward at the scenery beyond. The expression on his face — always so composed — showed, for just a moment, a profound sorrow, as though he had lost something beautiful that could never be recovered.

Many more years passed after that. Even my eldest son was of an age to discuss marriage arrangements. Four of the great-aunts, two of the great-uncles, and then Grandmother all passed away in succession. At last, Grandfather himself died.

The soaring pillar that held up the Sheng Family had fallen. The old Duke stood in the mourning hall for a very long, very long time. His expression was desolate and lonely, yet he did not appear overtly sorrowful — as though he were not mourning a cherished friend, but rather his own earliest youth.

Because Grandfather’s accomplishments and merits had been so outstanding, the Emperor commanded two imperial princes to accompany the funeral procession, an honor and imperial favor remarkable indeed for its time.

The grand funeral exhausted every member of the family. I returned to my parents’ home to visit official mother, who was ill in bed. The two of us, as was always the case, had little to say to each other.

Just as I was preparing to take my leave, official mother suddenly spoke: “Do you know? In truth, that year at the Lantern Festival, the moment old Duke Qiguo laid eyes on you, he wanted to betroth you to his grandson. It was your father who refused. He said — if the girl turned out to be lacking in some way, how could he bring such misfortune upon his dearest friend’s household? In the years that followed, your father quietly observed you, and eventually decided that your character was honest and wholesome, and only then agreed to the match.”

My heart gave a sudden start.

On the carriage ride home, it was the first time I had ever truly given this question serious thought.

What had the old Duke’s reason been, in the beginning, for taking such a liking to me? There was something I faintly sensed and half understood, yet could not entirely work out — something that resisted all reasoning. Never mind, I decided — best not to dwell on it. Think too much, and one ends up unable to eat.

After his dear friend’s passing, the old Duke gradually aged. By the end of the following year, the physician spoke plainly: “Preparations for the final arrangements may now be made.”

First Uncle and Father-in-law were both deeply grieved, unable to hold back the choking of tears in their throats. Whatever disagreements may have passed between the two brothers over the years, their reverence and love for their aged father was genuine and absolute.

“I have spoken with Elder Brother. Once Father… has gone…” Father-in-law continued with great difficulty, turning to face mother-in-law. “We will divide the household. Our son ought to go out and temper himself through experience. I have found him an external posting — let our daughter-in-law go along with him. And we shall remain in the capital to care for our grandchildren.”

Mother-in-law had also grown old, and had become ever more mild-tempered with the passing years. Upon hearing this, she showed not the slightest dissatisfaction, and smiled warmly: “That arrangement suits very well. I shall speak with First Sister-in-Law — after all is settled, we should live near one another, so we may look after each other.”

I understood. Father-in-law and mother-in-law had made their peace with it entirely — they were relinquishing the title and estate of the Dukedom in exchange for a household at peace and brothers in harmony.

My husband led me slowly back to our quarters, and said to me in a gentle voice: “These years have been hard on you. The household has many rules and much to manage. Once we are away, we can go out for spring outings, take boats on the lakes…”

He pressed his lips close to my ear and said warmly: “And we can add another little troublemaker to the family.”

My face grew hot. I laughed softly and scolded him: “You wicked man.”

At the old Duke’s sickbed, First Uncle and Father-in-law together informed their father of the decision they had reached.

The old Duke understood what it all meant. He smiled weakly and gave a nod: “…Good… You two brothers have worked this out for yourselves… that is very good…”

By the bedside, the old man’s arm slowly lowered. Once long and elegant, it was now soft and frail with age.

Setting aside the ancestral property of the Dukedom, the meritorious service fields, and the sacrificial fields, all remaining family wealth was divided in two. The two elderly concubines were also each given provision for their care. Throughout the whole process, not a single person raised an objection.

After the funeral rites were concluded, Old Concubine Ding brought a small box to me, cradling it in both hands, and smiled with sorrowful gentleness: “This is what the old Duke instructed me to present to the Second Young Mistress. It is nothing of great monetary value — consider it simply a token of remembrance.”

She paused, then could not help adding one more line, her voice carrying the trace of tears: “The old Duke had sent it out once before, but it was returned to him.” Having said this, she knew herself to have spoken out of turn, and immediately took her leave.

It was a small carved wooden box — an old brass clasp-lock, delicate mother-of-pearl inlay, and rosewood of the kind worth its weight in gold. Even after more than sixty years, it still radiated a quiet, warm luster, along with a faint, light fragrance.

I slowly opened it. Inside were a pair of clay figurines.

These were not unfamiliar to me — the Great Afu clay figurines of Wuxi. I had owned several as a young child, though mine were not as finely crafted as these two, which seemed to have been specially commissioned — their clothing and appearance made to particular specification.

One was a boy figurine, one a girl figurine, both dressed in festive bright red, chubby and endearing. But the years had been long, and the once vivid glaze had flaked away over most of their surfaces. They looked as though they had been frequently cradled and gently rubbed in the palm of a hand, their features and forms worn soft and indistinct. As I turned them over in my hands, I found faint characters inscribed on the base of each. On the bottom of the girl figurine was written: “Little Six.” On the bottom of the boy figurine: “Little Two.”

The ink had faded to a gray-pale hue — it must have been written several decades ago — yet one could still dimly make out that the calligraphy had once been graceful and refined.

A quiet, dull ache rose in my heart. I found myself wondering: had the person who once received these two clay figurines ever seen these four characters?

I placed the figurines back into the box, then walked quietly to the study and wrapped my arms around my husband from behind, pressing my cheek lightly against the back of his neck. My husband set down the documents in his hands, reached back to hold me, drew me into his lap, and smiled: “What is it — are you thinking of another little troublemaker again?”

I gazed at him for a long moment, then said abruptly: “Hey. Little Two of the Qi Family.”

My husband startled, then laughed at himself: “You’re being nonsensical again.”

It was the playful nickname from their early days of marriage, and a spark of mischief lit in him. He tapped his wife’s upturned nose: “Hey. Little Six of the Sheng Family.”

A sudden wave of sorrow swept over me. Tears welled in my eyes. I held my husband tightly and quietly answered: “Mm.”

Little Two of the Qi Family and Little Six of the Sheng Family — in this lifetime, together forever and always.

Closing Words

This story began with a Sixth Miss of the Sheng Family, and ends with a Sixth Miss of the Sheng Family. In the end, they both found happiness.

All the emotional turmoil began on one afternoon when a young man of the Qi surname lifted a curtain and walked in — and it ends with the passing of that young man. Whether he found happiness in the end, no one can say.

Our remembrance began with a family on the cusp of its flourishing, and ends with that family’s flowers blooming to their final fullness before they fall.

Flowers bloom and flowers fall, in endless, turning cycles.

Our nation, our bloodlines, our civilization — all are like this.

I wished to depict a prosperous and glorious age — with a wise and enlightened ruler, a bold and resolute general, a cunning opportunist, a strategist whose plans reach beyond the foreseeable — filled with blood, with tragedy, and with a radiant future.

I wished to depict a family ascending toward its zenith — with a patriarch of careful deliberation, sons of upright and honorable bearing, daughters of fierce spirit and graceful charm — filled with tears, with hurt, and with the sweetness that comes after all bitterness has been endured.

All the principal figures who appeared throughout The Story of Ming Lan — whether they wept, laughed, rejoiced, or grieved; whether they were powerful or humble, kind or cruel, triumphant or defeated — their stories have now come to an end.

After this, I will not write of them again.

Thank you all — thank you so very much.

This has been an unforgettable journey. I am so glad to have known you all. Writing these last words, I find that I want to cry.

Four o’clock in the morning.