Dust and Secrets
921 Words
The East Wing attic was not a room; it was a graveyard for things the Zhen family wanted to forget.
As the heavy wooden door creaked open, a cloud of stale, grey dust billowed out, coating Zhen Rong’s eyelashes.
The air was stagnant, smelling of dry rot, mothballs, and the metallic tang of a leaking roof.
Discarded furniture—broken chairs, lopsided wardrobes, and stacks of yellowing newspapers—loomed in the shadows like skeletal remains.
Zhen Rong stood in the center of the cramped space. A single, bare bulb hung from a frayed wire, casting long, shivering shadows across the floorboards.
"Stay here and reflect on your 'simplicity'," Madam Qin’s voice echoed in her mind.
Zhen Rong didn’t drop her rucksack. She didn’t sit on the rusted iron cot that groaned at the slightest touch. Instead, she rolled up her sleeves.
In the village, Sensei Han had taught her that a person’s environment was a reflection of their mind. "If you live in filth, your thoughts will be muddy," he had said.
She found an old bucket and a rag in a corner washroom that looked like it hadn't seen water in a decade.
For the next three hours, Zhen Rong didn't act like a grieving daughter or a displaced heiress. She acted like a whirlwind.
She moved the heavy boxes with a strength that belied her slender frame—martial arts training had taught her how to use her core, not just her muscles.
She scrubbed the floorboards until the dark wood began to show its grain.
She used a discarded newspaper to wipe the grime from the single, circular window until the moonlight finally bled through, silver and clean.
By the time she finished, the room was still poor, but it was no longer a tomb. It was a decent living space.
As she pushed a heavy, moth-eaten rug toward the corner, her foot caught on a specific plank of wood. It didn't thud like the others; it echoed.
Hollow.
Zhen Rong froze. She knelt, her fingers tracing the edge of the board.
Most people would have seen nothing, but her eyes, sharpened by years of identifying subtle patterns in nature and calligraphy, caught a tiny, faded mark etched into the corner of the wood.
A plum blossom.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She remembered the key Sensei Han had given her —it was shaped like a single plum branch.
She smirked. That was what he meant by "you'll understand". He knew there was no way she wouldn't discover that loose floorboard.
Zhen Rong used the small pocketknife she kept in her rucksack to pry the board loose. It resisted at first, then gave way with a sharp c***k that seemed deafening in the silent house.
Hidden in the shallow cavity beneath the floor was a small, lacquered wooden box.
It was covered in a fine layer of silk, preserved from the dust. She turned it around in her hands.
It was locked.
She took the key her Sensei had given her, and inserted it into the little keyhole. It made some creaking noises and then a clack that indicated the box was opened. With trembling fingers, Zhen Rong lifted the lid.
Inside lay a single envelope, the paper thick and expensive, though yellowed with time.
The scent of dried jasmine, her mother’s signature fragrance,—which she was familiar with from previous letters she received through her senseis—wafted up, hitting Zhen Rong with the force of a physical blow.
She tore it open. The handwriting was elegant, each stroke a masterpiece of balance and restraint.
It read:
"To my Rong-er,
If you are reading this, the cycle has turned, and you have returned to the house of shadows. I am sorry I could not be there to shield you. But I did not leave you defenseless.
The Zhen family sees only the surface of things. They see the mountain, but they do not see the veins of gold within. Do not show them your light too soon. Play the part of the girl from the mountains; let their arrogance be your armor.
When the path becomes dark, look to the place where the silence is kept. Go to the Great Library of Blueblood Academy. Look for the man who guards the scrolls of the past.
Trust the Old Man in the Library. He holds the key to the name they tried to steal from you.
With all my love,
Your Mother."
Zhen Rong clutched the letter to her chest, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
For years, she had wondered if her mother had truly abandoned her to the dirt of Jiangxi. Now, she knew. She wasn't an accident. She was a plan.
"The Great Library," Zhen Rong whispered, her voice hardening.
She tucked the letter back into the box and hid it inside her rucksack. She looked out the window toward the silhouette of the city.
Somewhere out there was Blueblood Academy—the playground of the elite, and her first battlefield.
She realized now that her father and Madam Qin hadn't just brought her back to satisfy her grandmother.
They had brought her back to a game she had been training to play since the day she was born.
The house was silent, but downstairs, she knew the vipers were sleeping.
Zhen Rong lay down on the hard cot. She thought about the key her mother had left her.
The Old Man in the Library.
Tomorrow, the game would truly begin.
- Writer
