In early winter, a courtyard in Langzhong, Bashu lay quiet and graceful. Bamboo shadows swayed across the stone steps with the wind, their rustling lending the stillness a secluded air.
The old crabapple in the corner still held up a few scattered remnants of red. Beside it, however, a loquat tree flourished, its thick green leaves spreading a deep, somber shade in the bleak, cold wind. Though every herb in the courtyard had withered, life still abounded.
Ding Feiyong sat quietly before the window in a plain white robe. His face was lean, his brows and eyes imbued with the scholarly grace and composure that years had distilled, yet the lingering gloom in his eyes betrayed his state of mind these past few years.
He raised his wrist and held his brush suspended, slowly letting the wolf-hair bristles drink their fill of ink from the Duan inkstone. His wrist was steady as cast metal.
The brush touched the Xuan paper, and ink strokes gradually emerged.
"The verses of bitter mourning lie unread; I weep blood and bear my grief."
His brushwork was powerful yet restrained, each stroke seeming to concentrate the strength of a thousand tons. The dry strokes broke and resumed like a proud spirit weathered by time, conveying an ancient, austere resilience.
He wrote with extreme slowness and gravity, as though he were not writing characters but carving, stroke by stroke, some feeling buried deep within his breast.
"The father's courtyard, trees stirred by wind; forever remembered, never forgotten!"
The final stroke fell like a lone pine hanging upside down, its strong joints distinct. The whole piece resembled ancient vines coiling over rock, an unyielding vitality contained within its weathered form.
Standing beside him, Ding Wenruo quietly held her breath. She wore a pale blue cotton jacket and