“My dad is in that box.”
Instinctively, I followed his line of sight to the square box on the altar. “Your father is… in the box?” I blurted out.
Only afterward did I realize he must mean the ashes.
The Shiyi Miao village practices cremation, which of course leaves ashes behind. Afterward, the ashes are either buried or scattered into the rivers and mountains. They’re never kept at home. From what Jianqing had said before, the Shiyi people typically scatter ashes into the river, praying that someday the deceased may follow the waters and return home again.
So why were Shen Siyuan’s ashes kept inside this stilt house?
The thought made me shudder. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity for Shen Siyuan.
“You should bury it—or scatter it in the river, the way your people do.”
Jianqing stepped forward and carefully wiped the urn before setting it squarely back on the altar. “That’s what I wanted to do at first,” he said. “But my mom couldn’t bear to let him go.”
His eyes lowered, as if sinking into an old memory. “For as long as I can remember, my dad was always bedridden. I barely ever saw him. His door was always closed, and my mom never let me disturb him.”
The wind kept pouring in. I pulled my collar tighter—cold was creeping up on me.
“But I always knew my parents must’ve loved each other very much,” he continued. “My mom used to tell me stories about them. How she saved my dad when he fell off a cliff. How they fell in love at first sight. How he built an iron chain bridge just so he could meet her. Every time she told those stories, her eyes sparkled like stars.”
He paused, turned to me with an earnest gaze, and said, “I didn’t understand her feelings when I was little… but now, I think I’m starting to.”
Through his dark eyes, I suddenly saw that obsessive, beautiful Miao woman he spoke of—alive again for a moment.
“If they loved each other that much, why keep your father locked up here? Why not let him come and go freely?”
“That wasn’t locking him up,” Jianqing said. “My dad got sick later on. His mind wasn’t right; he’d wander off and get lost. My mom said she was terrified one day he’d leave and never return. So she was protecting him. Even when she died, she still couldn’t let him go. She made me promise to keep his ashes at home. That way, when she comes back someday, she can still see him.”
Just hearing it made my chest tighten. I’d never seen A-qing or Shen Siyuan myself, never witnessed any of this firsthand—but even imagining it made me ache for Shen Siyuan.
Love really can suffocate.
I said softly, “If she couldn’t bear to be apart, she still ended up buried alone.”
At that, Jianqing’s face darkened. The nostalgia vanished; coldness slipped in. “I was still young then. They didn’t listen to me,” he said. “But it’s fine. Soon enough…”
His voice drifted into a murmur. I didn’t catch the rest.
He wasn’t lying—his expression was too genuine, too earnest. These were the stories he’d been fed since childhood: that his parents loved deeply and endlessly.
But the closer you are to something, the more blind you become. From the outside, it’s obvious—this was nothing but suffocating possessiveness and control.
I suddenly thought of the famous Rashomon. One event, not even that complicated, but told by different people, becomes completely different—sometimes opposite. Everyone filters stories through their own desires, their own need to defend and beautify themselves.
In A-qing’s retellings to Jianqing, she and Shen Siyuan loved each other fiercely.
But in Wanying’s version, Shen Siyuan was nothing more than a pitiful man caged like an animal.
The truth of what really happened—whether they had ever truly loved each other, or even loved each other once—had long died with the people in the story. No one would ever know.
But in that moment, I suddenly understood everything Shen Jianqing had done.
People say parents are a child’s first teachers. Without realizing it, we imitate how our parents navigate the world. A person’s understanding of life—of relationships, of right and wrong—comes from what they grow up seeing.
Love included.
But no one ever taught Shen Jianqing how to love.
How to love in a normal, healthy way.
All the love he had ever seen was possession, obsession, and force.
So he loved the only way he knew.
It was terrifying.
The wind howled harder, as if warning that a storm was close. In that gusting wind, Shen Jianqing stepped toward me.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. “Do you pity me?”
I shook my head and deflected, “No. Just a little cold.”
Without hesitation, Shen Jianqing wrapped his arms around me. His warmth closed in from all directions, sealing out the wind.
I heard his voice by my ear. “It’s fine if you pity me. In fact, I’d prefer it. That way you won’t have the heart to leave.”
Another trick he’d learned from A-Qing, no doubt.
He always played the weak one, while at the same time forcefully shutting out anything he didn’t like.
I stood stiffly in his arms, unable to lean in. But he didn’t mind, holding onto me with stubborn insistence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the gu jar on the altar—the one I’d seen once before. Something stirred inside me, and I couldn’t help asking, “Jianqing, is that your gu jar?”
“Yes.”
“And do you… actually know how to use gu?”
He let out a soft laugh, breath brushing damp and warm against my cheek. “Li Yuze, I don’t know how to use gu.”
Is that so? The answer was identical to before, but I was no longer the Li Yuze who fell for everything he said.
If he didn’t know how to use gu, then why did he have a gu jar?
I didn’t believe him—not anymore.
The sun was sinking lower, resting on the ridge of the mountains. The room roared with wind, as though someone really might ride the gusts and enter at any moment. Buried in Shen Jianqing’s arms, I muttered, “Let’s go down. It’s getting dark.”
He gave a low hum, unreadable, but didn’t move. I frowned and followed his gaze downward.
My right ankle brace—the wooden splint holding my healing bone—had somehow snapped loose. The binding string had broken, and the splint dangled awkwardly from my ankle like it had completed its final mission.
We must’ve missed it when he hurried me up the stairs.
Careless. Too careless.
“So your foot’s healed already?” Shen Jianqing said, tone full of implication.
I rushed to explain, “It only stopped hurting a few days ago. It’s just been recovering quickly…”
“Then we should celebrate!” he declared. I froze, unsure if he believed me, but his eyes curved with genuine joy, like he was truly happy for me.
I forced myself to stay calm. “Celebrate…?”
“Of course we should celebrate!” he said brightly.
I hesitated. “Celebrate how?”
Wind whipped his long hair wildly, strands brushing across his face, and he didn’t even blink. Without pausing to think, he said, “Since my father and mother are both here today—let’s get married.”
I stared.
What?
M… married?
I honestly thought something was wrong with my hearing. Otherwise how could I have heard something so absurd?
“You… do you even understand what you’re saying?” I asked, dazed.
His gaze was steady, unwavering. His long lashes cast deep shadows beneath his eyes as he answered, “Of course I understand. I’m saying we should get married today. Will you?”
My eyes widened. “Do you know what marriage even means? You’re still so young… Marriage isn’t a child’s game.”
He was too young. There was no way he truly understood what marriage entailed.
“I always thought everything I’ve done was enough to show you how I feel,” he said softly. “Li Yuze, even in death, I won’t let go.”
Just like A-Qing—who wouldn’t let Shen Siyuan’s ashes return to the earth even after death.
But marriage isn’t something one person can drag another into. Both sides have to want it—truly want it.
I wouldn’t question the intensity of his feelings. Honestly, no one could face such burning devotion without being moved.
But being moved is one thing. Love is another. Marriage is something else entirely.
And I wasn’t ready for marriage. Much less marrying a man.
“You don’t want to?” Shen Jianqing’s hand tightened on my shoulder.
“I…” The words stuck in my throat.
Lie to him, Li Yuze, a voice screamed inside me. Nothing here is legally binding anyway. Lie to him—your life will be easier.
I knew the practical answer was “yes.” But I couldn’t say it.
Some strange moral line inside me held tight—as if saying yes would be making him a real promise.
Seeing me silent for so long, the excitement in Shen Jianqing’s face slowly faded. The stars in his eyes dimmed, snuffed out. He sighed, a little hollow.
“It’s fine,” he murmured. “It’s fine if you’re not willing today.”
He paused, then added quietly, “It’s my fault for not preparing properly. No sticky rice cakes, no ceremony, no lusheng flute… Nothing’s ready. How could we get married so casually?”
Hearing that, I finally let out a slow breath of relief.
He hadn’t even finished letting out that breath when Shen Jianqing added, “But you have to make it up to me.”
Make it up to him? I didn’t owe him anything.
Still… compared to the absurdity of suddenly getting married on the spot, this “compensation” thing almost felt acceptable.
“What kind of compensation do you want?”
“Hm…” Shen Jianqing looked me over from head to toe. After a moment of thought, his eyes suddenly lit up. His gaze narrowed into a thin line, and a bright smile spread across his face, showing two rows of gleaming teeth.
The moment I saw that sunny grin, a sense of foreboding crawled up my spine.