The maid slowly finished grinding the ink and looked at Dan-niang, who was frowning in deep thought.
The Chen family, known for their scholarly traditions, likely began their children’s education early. However, for a girl like Dan-niang, the expectations were more lenient compared to the boys. She had probably just started studying the Three Classics, as poetry and verse wouldn’t be something expected of a child at the beginning of their education.
The little girl had most likely overheard her older brother, teacher, father, or grandfather discussing poetry and literature.
Cheng Jiao-niang remained indifferent, simply gazing at the wall.
“We’re here to admire the plum blossoms,” the maid softly reminded Dan-niang. “You can start with that.”
Dan-niang let out an “Ah!” in realization.
“Yes, yes, I’ve got it,” she said, clearing her throat. “Admiring plum blossoms… at the mountain temple… at the mountain temple to admire the plum blossoms.”
The maid nodded with a smile.
“Good, good, that’s it,” she said with a laugh. “What’s next?”
“Plum blossoms… plum blossoms…” Dan-niang tilted her head, trying to think.
“You can’t use ‘plum blossoms’ again,” the maid reminded her.
Dan-niang pouted.
“I don’t know anymore,” she said.
Cheng Jiao-niang lowered her head to look at her.
“It’s fine, even one line will do,” she said, reaching out her hand.
The maid quickly handed her the brush.
“Are you going to write the line I just came up with?” Dan-niang asked, blinking. “Can my poem really be inscribed?”
Cheng Jiao-niang nodded, taking the brush in her hand. At first, she felt a slight tremble.
She had regained her strength, so why was her hand trembling? Why was there a faint ache in her nose?
It’s just writing. It’s only writing.
She lifted her head and gazed at the pure white wall.
“Dan-niang, can I change a few words in your poem?” she asked.
Dan-niang giggled.
“Sure, sure!” she replied.
The maid suddenly felt a bit nervous as she watched Cheng Jiao-niang standing by the wall, lifting the brush. Though she herself didn’t quite understand why she was nervous.
Cheng Jiao-niang raised her hand and began to write.
The first stroke trembled, causing the ink to smudge.
The maid gasped internally.
Writing on a wall was already more difficult than usual, and Miss had never written before—or at least not since the maid had been with her.
Her hand kept trembling, still trembling.
Why was she doing this? There was no need. Moving her limbs, recovering from illness—those were important. Writing? Whether she could or couldn’t, what did it matter?
“Useless! Can’t even write, and you dare call yourself my daughter!”
A voice suddenly erupted in her mind, like a thunderous boom, leaving Cheng Jiao-niang overwhelmed as her eyes filled with mist.
Who? Who was it?
She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and with a flick of her wrist, her strokes flowed effortlessly, like water running over smooth stones.
The maid standing beside her felt as though her own breath had stopped. She had never imagined that simply watching someone write could evoke such a feeling.
Just when it seemed she might suffocate, the lady’s hand moved again, guiding the brush with elegance.
The maid exhaled deeply, placing a hand over her chest, feeling as though a lifetime had passed—when, in reality, it was only the span of a single blink.
“Mountain…” she slowly recited.
“Temple…” Dan-niang followed.
“Awaits…” the maid read aloud, then suddenly let out a surprised “Huh?” Her eyes widened.
She was about to say something but didn’t get the chance before Dan-niang continued.
“Plum…” Dan-niang said, tilting her head upward.
“Blossoms…” Cheng Jiao-niang uttered the final word, lifting the brush and stepping back a few paces.
On the snow-white wall, a bold line of characters now stood out vividly.
Cheng Jiao-niang gazed at it, the maid stared at it, and so did Dan-niang.
One looked serene, one astonished, and the other playful.
Father…
Even though I still don’t remember who you are or who I am, as long as I’m here, I can wait. You wait for me, wait for me to remember everything. In the meantime, I must live with ease and joy.
“Let’s go, let’s admire the plum blossoms,” Cheng Jiao-niang said, tucking her hands into her sleeves and striding toward the back door without looking back.
Dan-niang, being a child, had already shifted her interest and happily followed upon hearing this. The maid snapped out of her daze, realizing she was the only one left in the grand hall, and quickly hurried after them.
As they exited through the back door, another group of people entered from the front, speaking in a lively manner with accents distinct from those of the capital.
“…Mr. Zhang Jiangzhou is holding lectures after the New Year, teaching the classics for the benefit of us exam candidates.”
“…But there are so many students; I wonder if we’ll have the chance to listen.”
“…It’s still early now, but come the first month, when the plum blossoms and snow reflect each other, inspiration will surely flow.”
“…If the work is good enough, they’ll cover it with a green gauze, and this wall will be preserved.”
“…Wenming, you should compose a poem quickly. I’ll write next to you, so I can bask in your glory and achieve eternal fame.”
Joking and chatting, the group reached the white wall—and then suddenly froze in place.
“Who did this? Such nonsense!”
Poetry and verse, at the very least, should follow some form! How could this be acceptable? Just one sentence—what even is this supposed to be?
“Mountain temple awaits the plum blossoms,'” someone read aloud. “This doesn’t even count as an opening line, maybe it could barely pass as a closing one. But just tossing it here alone—what’s the meaning of that?”
More people entered from outside. Seeing the commotion, they came over to look, and immediately joined in, stamping their feet in disapproval.
“This is pure nonsense! Ruining a perfectly good wall like this…”
“And no monks around to keep watch, letting anyone scribble as they please…”
Amidst the clamor of shaking heads, sighs, reprimands, and feelings of disgrace to culture, someone suddenly exclaimed, “Hmm?” and seriously looked at the characters on the wall.
“What kind of script is this… It looks like something I’ve never seen before?” he muttered, unconsciously starting to copy the strokes on his hand.
Gradually, others began to notice, and they couldn’t help but pay attention. The bold line of characters was so conspicuous on the wall, it was impossible to ignore.
“Hey, look! Every single character is different!”
“Remarkable, truly remarkable! As expected, flowing like clouds and water, effortlessly transitioning…”
“But what a pity, the first stroke hesitated, which affected the whole character—it lacks momentum…”
“…I’ve been practicing calligraphy since I was four, but how come I’ve never seen these five styles before?”
More and more people gathered in the small side hall, and the commotion attracted even more curious onlookers. People from afar, unsure of what was happening, began asking one another.
“Has someone written a brilliant poem?”
“It’s not the best time yet, it’s only decent for now. Soon, there will be even better ones.”
Some were in awe, some remained indifferent, and others looked on with disdain.
Three or four people from afar, who were admiring the plum blossoms, also heard the commotion.
“Qinglin, when we went in just now, there were only four poems, and they all seemed rather ordinary. Could it be because of your poem?” someone asked.
The middle-aged man called Qinglin showed a barely concealed excitement in his expression, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“How could I dare,” he said modestly.
“I’ve long thought that Qinglin’s poem was quite different from the others,” another person remarked.
The others began to compliment him one after another.
There were many who became famous for a single poem, and some even gained favor from important figures.
To have such good fortune fall on him was almost too much to believe. His breath quickened, and his companions felt a mix of jealousy and excitement. Although they couldn’t achieve fame themselves, being friends with someone famous wasn’t so bad.
“Quick, go ask, go ask!” one of them said, hurrying off.
A few people came over, but the side hall was already too crowded to enter.
“Excuse me, what’s going on here?” one person asked, taking a deep breath and pretending to be surprised and confused.
“Someone wrote a wonderful poem,” the person in front responded excitedly.
Sure enough, the group exchanged glances, and Qinglin’s face turned slightly red, his hand clenched at his side.
“What kind of poem? Who is the author?” a companion asked, his voice trembling.
The person turned around and gave him a look.
“There are too many people, it’s too crowded to get in. I haven’t seen it yet…” he replied.
Why get so excited when you haven’t even seen it yourself… The others secretly scorned him.
After a series of questions, they finally found out.
“No name was left.”
No name? How could someone write a poem and not leave their name? Wouldn’t that be like throwing a flirtatious glance at a blind person?
A few of them paused, then looked at Qinglin.
“I… I remember there was a name,” Qinglin said, his face reddening.
“Maybe it was too small to see,” someone speculated quietly.
After asking and asking, the people in front couldn’t give a clear answer. In their impatience, a few of them stubbornly pushed their way to the door, but could go no further.
“That’s the poem written by my senior!” one person couldn’t help but shout.
The people blocking the way in front quickly turned around, but strangely, instead of showing excitement or admiration, they rolled their eyes.
“This trick won’t work, give it up,” they said in unison. “We haven’t had enough of looking at it yet, we won’t let you through.”
“It really is my senior’s poem!” a few of them couldn’t help but shout again.
“What are you talking about? What we’re looking at isn’t a poem, it’s the handwriting,” one of the people in front sneered. “Your poems, the ones you wrote on the wall, don’t mean a thing in front of this calligraphy.”
What? Not a poem? Just handwriting?
A few people stood on tiptoe, pressing on the shoulders of those in front to see.
“Mountain temple awaits the plum blossoms.”
The characters, the ink still wet, carried a mix of boldness, melancholy, and an indescribable charm, striking the eye with force.
Such a simple sentence in plain language, yet in the strokes—across horizontal, vertical, slanted lines, and turns—it was as though a dragon’s eye was suddenly opened, leaping to life with vibrant energy, resounding in one’s mind.
