Where the Lychee Flowers Bleed

The snow fell early this year. In the old capital of Trường Ninh, while the chill of the eastern winds still gnawed through the bones, a lone blossom appeared on the ancient lychee tree beside the stone well in the west courtyard of the General’s Manor. Just one bloom—bright crimson, startling against the white frost. Some whispered, “A flower blooming out of season… is surely an omen of misfortune.” But no one in the manor paid heed. They were too busy with schemes, with masks and measured words, where smiles hid blades beneath silken sleeves. In the courtyard, a young boy knelt by the stone steps, hands grasping a bamboo broom. Snow clung to his thin shoulders like cold ashes. No one remembered when he had arrived at the manor. Only that, one early winter morning seven years ago, someone from the servants’ quarters brought in a frail little child—hair matted, robes torn. He neither cried nor spoke. Just stood there beneath the eaves, head lowered, eyes frozen like glass beneath a layer of ice. They said he was the child of a former maid, one who had been cast out long ago. He never denied it. When asked for his name, he simply replied: “Trạm Dư.” Dư—“excess.” His name, like his presence, felt unwanted. “You’re still not done?” A voice rang out, crisp and clear, like spring water striking stone. Startled, the boy looked up. A young girl stood beneath the overhang, her white silk robe fluttering in the wind. In her hand was a small lantern embroidered with red plum blossoms. The glow of the lantern reflected in her eyes, making them shine even more brightly. She didn’t wait for him to answer. Stepping down the stone steps, she placed a bowl of warm porridge on the stone table beside him. “It’s still warm. Eat.” And with that, she turned and left. No coaxing. No pity. He watched her walk away, until her sleeve disappeared around the curved corridor. Then, slowly, he reached for the bowl. For the first time in seven years, he realized— —his hands were trembling. Her name was Lục Nhược Mai. The eldest daughter of the General’s household. Her mother, Lady Tô Uyển Ngưng, had once been famed for both beauty and grace. But she passed away when Nhược Mai was only six, leaving behind a child too young to remember the softness of her mother’s touch. Not long after, the General remarried. His new wife was a courtesan-turned-lady, beautiful as a painting. Along with her came a gentle, sweet-spoken girl, about the same age as Nhược Mai. Her smiles were always flawless. Her name: Lục Tố Yến. Outsiders praised the General for his kindness—marrying a fallen woman for the sake of love. But no one questioned why he remarried before Lady Tô’s funeral rites had even passed forty-nine days. No one noticed when Tố Yến began taking Nhược Mai’s place at banquets, learning poetry and zither, and eventually standing beside the General himself during grand feasts. No one… except Trạm Dư. He never spoke of it. But each time he saw Nhược Mai standing silently behind gauze curtains, his eyes would dim, shadowed with quiet fury. One night, early in the month, as fine rain fell gently from the sky, the manor was long asleep. Trạm Dư was fixing the eaves of the study when he heard the unmistakable sound of a book being thrown. Then came the sharp c***k of porcelain breaking—and a low, angry voice. Through a narrow c***k in the door, he saw Nhược Mai kneeling by the bed, her hair loose, her head bowed low. Seated in the chair was the General, face twisted in rage. Beside him stood Tố Yến, weeping softly into her sleeve. Now and then, she would glance sideways—with eyes full of quiet triumph. Trạm Dư clenched the bamboo beam so tightly his knuckles bled. That night, Nhược Mai was confined to her room. The windows were sealed. The lanterns had gone out. Outside, snow began to fall again. Trạm Dư stood in silence beneath the window for a long time, a small stone in his hand. With his knife, he carved two characters into it: “Bình An.” — Peace and safety. He gently placed the stone beneath her windowsill, then turned and walked away. Unseen, behind the curtain, a pair of eyes had been watching. Silent. Unblinking. Elsewhere in the manor, Tố Yến sat before her bronze mirror, slowly brushing her hair. The reflection staring back no longer carried innocence. Each stroke of the comb was slow, deliberate—as though she were unraveling silk. “Sister…” “Do you know what hand-stitched silk is like?” “You unravel it… one thread at a time.”