The wind gently stirred the curtains, while the lanterns swayed with the soft murmur of the air. The silence of the room was broken only by Meixin's soft sigh as she lay asleep under silk sheets, languid, like a withered lily under the sun.
Zhang Yun sat on a low chair, just a step from the bed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on her. He wore a loose, dark robe, wrinkled from days of sleeplessness, and his hair was carelessly tied back. He held her hand in his, and his lips trembled, dry with remorse.
—Meixin…— he murmured again and again, as if afraid to wake her. —I'm sorry...
Meixin awoke slowly, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings before fully opening. As she turned her head slightly, her eyes met the figure sitting by her bed.
For a moment, she thought she was dreaming. Surprise flickered in her weary gaze—a mixture of disbelief and confusion that made her heart skip a beat. He was there, by her side, his face gaunt and his eyes swollen. Meixin slowly looked down and noticed that he was holding her hand. Then, as if the touch burned her, she gently withdrew it and turned her face away, avoiding his gaze.
Yun swallowed hard, pained, and leaned toward her with clumsy, cautious tenderness. His fingers brushed the blanket, too hesitant to touch her again. His voice, stripped for the first time of its usual coldness, came out as a trembling whisper, heavy with guilt:
—How… how are you feeling?
She didn't answer right away. She remained silent, her eyes unfocused on some distant point. Just then, a quick knock on the door broke the heavy tension in the air. Yun turned slightly as Liu Zhen hurried in, her face distressed, hands clutching her apron.
—My lady… you've finally awakened,— she said in a choked voice, not daring to raise her eyes.
Zhen approached cautiously, kneeling by the bed. Her expression was a mixture of relief and worry. She gently took Meixin's hand and helped her sit up slowly, arranging cushions behind her back. Then she pulled a small wooden box from her bundle and, with trembling hands, poured a dose of bitter medicine into a porcelain spoon.
—Please take it… it will help with the pain,— she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears.
Meixin obeyed in silence. As soon as the liquid touched her tongue, the bitterness filled her mouth—but that wasn't what made her tremble. She brought a trembling hand to her abdomen, and as she touched the smooth, empty surface, her soul shattered.
She wept.
She wept silently, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks—no sobs, no sound. Her grief was dry and deep, like one who has lost something that can never be recovered. Her fingers clutched the fabric of the blanket, and her shoulders shook like leaves in the rain.
Seeing her like that, Yun felt something inside him break. There were no words, no gestures, no apologies that could heal such a wound. He stood with difficulty, his steps clumsy, as if his feet didn't want to leave but his heart could no longer stay.
He left the room, soul defeated.
In the days that followed, Meixin remained immersed in sorrow, as if the world had lost all color after the death of her child. She barely spoke, barely ate. She spent long hours staring out the window, her eyes swollen from crying. Yun, consumed by guilt, avoided approaching her, unable to face the weight of what he had done. Yet each day, he discreetly sent trays with nourishing foods, soothing teas, fresh fruits, and soft sweets, hoping that, at least, his silent care might reach the shattered heart he had helped destroy.
One early morning, as the moon rose over the Zhang residence, Yun couldn't sleep. His mind had found no rest for days, and that night—like so many others—his steps wandered aimlessly among the stone paths and tranquil ponds.
He walked with his hands behind his back, his gray silk robe fluttering with each step, when suddenly a figure crossed in the distance between the cherry trees. He stopped.
—Who's there?— he called out firmly.
The silhouette paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then took off running.
—Guards! Stop that man!
The sound of boots rang against the stone floor as the sentries rushed in like arrows across the garden. It wasn't long before they returned, holding tightly to a young man in dark clothes with a panicked face.
It was Chen Lian.
Yun felt a wave of fury rise in his chest. He lunged at him without restraint, fists clenched, striking him with the force of accumulated rage, guilt, and betrayal.
—Coward! Traitor!
Chen Lian didn't fight back—he only tried to shield himself. Then, in the middle of the attack, a handkerchief fell from his robe. A piece of white cloth embroidered with a red peony flower.
Yun froze. That flower, that embroidery… he recognized it.
—Bring Zhang Ron,— he ordered coldly.
A few minutes later, his sister arrived in a rush, wrapped in a white robe, her hair loose, her feet bare. When she saw Chen Lian—face bloodied, lips split, clothes in tatters—her face turned pale.
—Lian!— she screamed, running to him without thinking, embracing him in front of everyone. —No… don't hurt him anymore!
Silence fell over the courtyard like a stone curtain. Yun stared at her, chest heaving, not understanding at first what he was seeing. But in that instant, everything became clear: Meixin wasn't the lover. It was his sister.
Zhang Tao appeared among the guards, his imposing figure crossing the corridors. Upon seeing his daughter kneeling beside Chen Lian, he stopped for a moment, as if time had frozen for him.
—Zhang Ron…— he growled as he advanced toward her. —Stand up this instant!
He grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her from the ground.
—Explain yourself!
Ron, eyes brimming with tears, lowered her head and confessed in a trembling voice:
—I love him, father. I've loved him in silence for years…
—He is a servant with no rank, no lineage! I will never allow you to tarnish our name for someone like him!
Without another word, Zhang Tao raised his hand and gave a signal.
—Take him away!— he ordered. —Get rid of him!
—No! Father, no! I beg you! Take me instead, but let him live!— Ron cried, falling to her knees.
At that moment, her eyes met those of Huang Fei, who was watching the scene from a gallery, hidden among the columns. Ron looked at her pleadingly, her face drenched in tears.
—Cousin! Please, help me!
But Fei didn't move. The hardness in her eyes said it all—she would not intervene.
That night, Ron was locked in her room, and Chen Lian thrown into the estate's dungeons.
Hours later, when all were asleep, Huang Fei appeared at her cousin's door. Her face held no compassion—only calculation. She wasn't doing it for Ron. She was doing it for herself. She knew that if the truth came to light, her schemes would be exposed.
—Get dressed,— she said. —I'm getting you out of here.
With the help of a discreet carriage and bribes to two guards, the two women managed to free the injured Chen Lian and escape under the mist of dawn.
The next morning, when Zhang Tao learned of their escape, he said nothing for long minutes. Then, before everyone, he delivered his verdict:
—From this day forth, Zhang Ron shall no longer be my daughter. Her name will be erased from the family lineage. No one shall speak of her in this house again.
And so, the name of Zhang Ron was condemned to oblivion, like a shadow erased from the ancestral tree.
In his study, Yun collapsed to his knees on the tatami mat and wept. His sobs burst forth with a raw, guttural force. This was no quiet crying—it was a lament born from the depths of his soul, as though each breath splintered his being. He took the tiny embroidered shoes he had kept in a box and clutched them to his chest, hunched over, wracked by spasms of guilt. He had destroyed everything with his own hands: the innocence of a child who never came to be, the faith of a wife who loved him without restraint, and the last sliver of humanity in his hardened heart.
In that moment, Zhang Yun was no longer a nobleman, nor an heir. Only a broken man, trapped in the silence of his mistakes, surrounded by the echo of a void that could never be filled.