After flipping the scroll over, Shang Youlan hung it on the rack beside the basin, its plain white backing facing outward. She then took a towel, soaked it in the water, and wiped the white backing of the scroll with it. A light layer of moisture was enough.
Wherever the water touched, pale cyan writing immediately appeared.
Once the writing across the entire scroll had emerged, Shang Youlan, gripping the towel in both hands, leaned closer to read it carefully. She was old now, and her eyes no longer worked so well.
After reading the contents written on the white backing, Shang Youlan choked back sobs as tears streamed down her face. She covered her mouth and nose with the towel, not daring to let herself cry aloud.
The letter had been sent by her son, Hai Wuji.
On his mother's birthday, a son missed his mother. Yet though he missed her, he did not dare come see her, nor did he dare correspond with her normally, much less keep in frequent contact over a long period. He could only tuck one letter into her birthday gifts each year, offering his mother greetings while also assuring her that he was safe.
Nor could she write back to ask the questions she wished to ask, because Hai Wuji did not dare provide his mother with any means of contact. Only he could send letters to her; it was one-way communication.
The glory of royal hegemony was certainly dazzling, but the unspeakable hardships and unbearable things beneath that glory were beyond the understanding of ordinary people.
Even reading a simple letter of greetings had to be done like this. The desolation in Shang Youlan's heart was beyond words.
She had gone through too much in her life. She had originally been a