Haunting
672 Words
He was still afraid.
Afraid of meeting that sorrowful gaze, afraid of facing a face that beauty had long since abandoned.
So, he never took another step toward that courtyard.
He married another concubine. Just like any other wealthy merchant might. It wasn’t out of affection—he simply married.
What does it feel like to love someone?
He didn’t know.
Or perhaps, he no longer remembered.
He told himself he had long forgotten many things. Truly, entirely forgotten.
His youngest son was about to reach his one-month birthday, adding a touch of joy to the bitter chill of winter. Watching the servants and maids bustling about with decorations, he realized his heart—long still and quiet—felt no trace of happiness.
He wandered aimlessly through the courtyard and somehow ended up in a secluded, cold corner.
Perhaps it was because of this seclusion that the snow here remained untouched—pure and pristine, not yet marred by any footsteps.
Two servants came by, carrying something between them.
When they saw him, they paused, then bowed low.
“Master.”
He nodded absently, his gaze falling on the bundle wrapped tightly in straw matting between them.
“What are you carrying?” he asked casually.
The two exchanged a glance, hesitating, unsure how to reply.
A sudden panic clutched at his chest.
He stared at the bundle, his fingertips beginning to tremble.
“…Take it away.”
He heard his own voice—weak, distant.
Stumbling out from that shadowed place, he was momentarily blinded by a burst of sunlight.
He stood still, drawing a deep breath, as though trying to verify something.
Then, step by step, he walked toward the solitary courtyard.
He hoped—desperately—that the moment he stepped through that gate, he would see that familiar figure sitting calmly on the stone bench.
But the courtyard was empty.
The skeletal trees had shed every leaf, and only two messy rows of footprints in the snow bore witness that someone had once been here.
He stood motionless before the door for what felt like ages.
At last, his hand—shaking—reached out to push it open.
With a creak, the door gave way.
He stepped inside.
The furnishings within were no longer as elegant as they once had been. Every object wore the wear of time.
The crystal lamp had a chipped rim, carefully glued back together.
The layers of gauzy curtains still hung over the bed, but the once-delicate colors had long faded into dull grey.
He couldn’t bear it any longer.
He tore open the curtains—only to find the bed empty.
Except for one dark, dried patch of blood.
It struck the eye like a wound.
He reached out to touch it, only to recoil as if burned.
Stumbling backward, he collapsed into the chair beside the writing desk.
Where was he?
Where was the boy who had once filled this room with his gentle presence, his trembling shyness?
A faint fragrance of tea drifted past.
He jumped to his feet in delight, searching frantically.
If there was still tea… then the boy must be safe. He must be.
His eyes fell on the tea set atop the desk—the very same four treasures of the tea room he had once gifted him.
He froze.
Slowly, he leaned closer.
The scent of tea was indeed wafting from them.
But the set was cold.
Utterly cold.
How many times must the same tea vessel be steeped before it absorbs enough of a person’s warmth to exude their scent even in their absence?
He suddenly remembered—those nights when he had slipped into the courtyard unannounced, without warning.
No matter the hour, there was always a cup of tea waiting for him.
Like a man possessed, he began to tear the room apart.
Under the bed.
Behind the curtains.
Inside the wardrobes and shelves.
Every space that might hide a person.
Every space that could not.
He left nothing untouched.
- Writer
