That morning, I was still a filthy beggar.
By nightfall, I had been scrubbed clean and smelled sweet.
I had sold myself to a brothel.
The madam looked me up and down, a smile spreading through the creases of her forehead.
“The Mid-Autumn Festival is in five days.
You’ll start taking clients then.”
I didn’t look at her.
The money was in my pocket.
Did she really think she still had a say?
All I wanted now was a good night’s sleep.
The room was lovely in every way, except that the fragrance made my head swim.
I shut the door and pushed open a small, carved window.
A streak of white light squeezed through the gap.
It widened until it filled my vision.
Why was there a luxurious room outside my window?
A man sat straight-backed at a writing desk, his head bent over the bow he was polishing.
He looked up and saw me too.
He wasn’t surprised, but he was very angry.
“I asked for nothing in return.
Who brought you into my residence?
This is absurd!”
Only then did I see his face clearly.
He was extraordinarily handsome.
It was Song Shan.
Wait.
Song Shan?
Hadn’t he been put to death by slow slicing at the third quarter of the noon watch that very day?
I had watched it myself.
