Blooming Dreams

Chapter 2: Winter's Warmth

The capital was still gripped by winter’s icy grasp, even as the New Year celebrations lingered. In the Haitang Courtyard of the Lu family’s third household, a small figure lay on the bed—a girl no older than six or seven. She was wrapped in layers of thick quilts, yet her frail body trembled uncontrollably. Her pale face, once rosy and bright, had turned ashen, and her lips were tinged with a frosty blue as she whimpered weakly, calling out for her father.

Sitting by her bedside was Lu Rong, her father, his sightless eyes gazing into the endless void. He could not see, but he could hear his daughter’s fragile voice, and it shattered his heart. Reaching out cautiously, his hand brushed against the pillow before landing on her cold, sunken cheek. Just weeks ago, that little face had been round and lively; now, after three days of unconsciousness, it was so thin he barely recognized it.

If only he could see. If only he could care for her better. Perhaps she wouldn’t have suffered this much.

“Don’t be afraid, Ah Nuan. Daddy is here,” he murmured, climbing onto the bed and wrapping her small, trembling body in his arms, trying to share what little warmth he had.

“It hurts…” The girl’s voice cracked, tears streaming down her face even in her fevered state.

Lu Rong leaned closer, his voice filled with tenderness as he whispered, “Where does it hurt, my precious? Tell Daddy, and I’ll hold it until it goes away.”

His voice was so soft, so familiar, that it jolted Lu Mingyu awake. She stared at him, her eyes wide in shock.

A Familiar Yet Distant Memory

Lu Rong felt the change immediately. His face lit up with joy as he asked, “Ah Nuan, are you awake?”

Lu Mingyu could only stare at the man above her. He wore a moon-white robe, his features refined and elegant, with an otherworldly calmness that set him apart from even the most handsome men she had known.

This was her father—the man she remembered from her youth. Quiet and distant, he had always carried an air of detachment, like a celestial being banished to the mortal world. Yet to her, he had been warm. He would pat her head fondly, hold her in his lap, and smile gently when she pestered him to sell the ink bamboo and treat her mother better.

But that was before. Before her mother’s death had drained the vitality from him, leaving a shadow of the man she had once known. And now, here he was—young again, vibrant, as if untouched by sorrow. Could it be…?

“Ah Nuan?” he called again, his brow furrowed with concern as he reached to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

Reflexively, Lu Mingyu grabbed his hand and froze. Her fingers were small—thin and childlike. Panic set in as she looked down at herself. Her body was that of a child’s.

“Daddy, Ah Nuan is awake!” a crisp voice called from outside. A maidservant named Guiyuan stepped into the room. She had been one of Lu Mingyu’s childhood caretakers. But hadn’t she been married off years ago? And where was Lanyue, the maid who should have been on duty tonight?

A flood of memories hit her—of a shadowy figure with six fingers, of searing flames consuming her room, of the cold blade stabbing into her chest.

Was she dead? Or was this some cruel dream?

A Mother’s Touch

“Ah Nuan?” The sound of her mother’s voice drew her attention to the doorway. Madam Xiao, as beautiful as a goddess, rushed into the room, her delicate features etched with worry. Dressed simply, with only a white jade hairpin adorning her, she exuded an ethereal elegance that made her the envy of all in the capital.

“Why are you staring at me like that, my dear?” Xiao asked gently, sitting at the bedside and brushing her daughter’s tear-streaked face with a soft hand. “Does something hurt? Mommy was only gone for a moment to see your uncle off. Did you miss me?”

Lu Mingyu’s tears came faster. She tried to sit up and throw herself into her mother’s arms, but her frail, fevered body faltered. Madam Xiao quickly caught her, tucking her back under the covers.

“Mommy is here,” Xiao soothed. “I won’t leave you again. Don’t worry, my sweet.”

The warmth of her mother’s embrace was overwhelming. Lu Mingyu clung to her, her tears soaking the front of her gown. This can’t be real, she thought desperately. How could it be? My mother has been dead for so many years…

Exhaustion finally claimed her, and she drifted into a restless sleep. Xiao stayed by her side, watching her with unrelenting tenderness.

A Husband’s Regret

At the foot of the bed, Lu Rong sat in silence, his unseeing eyes directed at his daughter. The faint scent of his wife’s perfume drifted to him, bringing memories of a time long past.

When their marriage had been arranged, his mother had described Xiao as a kind and beautiful girl, urging him to treat her well despite her status as a concubine’s daughter. Lu Rong had laughed bitterly then. What right does a blind man have to reject such a match?

His first impression of her had been her scent—delicate and soothing. She had spoken so softly that he often had to strain to hear her, and he had assumed she resented their union. Out of guilt, he had kept his distance, reluctant to burden her further.

But one quiet night, she had asked, “Do you dislike me, my lord?”

Her voice had been as clear and sweet as a mountain spring, catching him off guard. “I don’t want you to feel trapped,” he had replied.

She had laughed softly. “I don’t feel trapped.”

Their marriage had started to bloom then, but his insecurities had kept him at arm’s length. He relied on his maidservant, Mozhu, for many tasks—small things that he didn’t want his wife to trouble herself with. He hadn’t understood how much his reliance on Mozhu hurt Xiao until it was too late.

A Moment of Resolve

As Xiao watched her daughter sleep, Lu Rong stood. “Let me know when she wakes again,” he said, retrieving his cane.

Xiao nodded without looking at him, her attention fixed on Ah Nuan’s peaceful face. As he left the room, the faint sound of Mozhu greeting him reached her ears. She curled her lips in a bitter smile. Does he rely on her out of self-pity or arrogance? It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s chosen his companion, and I’ve chosen mine.

Her gaze softened as she turned back to her daughter. “Don’t worry, my little one,” she murmured, stroking Ah Nuan’s hair. “Mommy won’t leave you.”