He had left the capital in early spring, when the lingering chill had yet to fade and light snow still fell now and then.
By April, the east wind carried the fragrance of orchids, their sweet scent washing over all.
In the Feng Residence's rear garden, moonlight flowed like water through the tall bamboo in the courtyard.
New bamboo shed its sheaths, tender green shoots mingling with the deep blue-green of older stalks, their uneven heights forming a living painting.
Bamboo shadows slanted across the bluestone walkway, sparse and scattered.
The last withered lotus leaves in the pond had only just fallen away, and new leaves unfurled like coins. Occasionally, koi mouthed the surface, sending ripples spreading.
Winter's cold was gone; spring filled the garden.
The one who often came here had yet to return.
Feng Yan sat alone behind his desk, a cup of junshan silver needle tea beside his hand, untouched and cold.
His loose robe was plain, his hair white as snow. No jade hung at his waist, no sash bound his clothes.
Even the red sandalwood cane that never left his side had somehow been left elsewhere.
Had he forgotten? Or was it...
Old age.
At that time, Wei Zi held command in Suzhou, investigating temple property, hemming in the imperial weaving office, and confiscating merchants' assets. He had submitted three memorials, yet sent not a single word of private correspondence to the capital.
Feng Yan remained quietly at home and likewise asked not a word about affairs in Suzhou.
This was no neglect of the bond between master and disciple, but an unspoken pact between them.
Feng Yan knew well that the Son of Heaven, in his intelligence, insisted on discovering everything for himself.
If the Son of Heaven noticed letters passing between