A Dream of Huai'an

Upon hearing this, he raised his hand to touch his face, only to find that his face was already wet.

But he couldn't answer.

Time flows silently like the waters of Qinghe.

In spring, the courtyard is filled with locust blossoms; in autumn, the fallen leaves pile up.

Su Yao's temples were gradually turning gray, and fine lines appeared at the corners of Gu Wanniang's eyes.

The children have grown up—the son has married a gentle girl who is always meek and obedient in front of her parents-in-law; the daughter has also married a young clerk in the city who, though not wealthy, is very caring.

A few years later, his son and daughter-in-law gave him two grandsons.

The eldest grandson is a robust and chubby boy who loves to ride on his shoulders all over the yard; the younger granddaughter is quiet and always likes to lie on his lap and listen to him tell stories.

He wasn't really good at telling stories; he just kept repeating the same few phrases—"The year the Qinghe flooded," "The day the cloth shop opened," and "When your grandmother was young."

But his little granddaughter never tired of listening to him, her bright black eyes gazing at him as if he were some extraordinary person.

He was sixty years old that year.

The locust flowers have bloomed all over the courtyard again, and they fall softly in the wind, like a belated snowfall.

He sat in a wicker chair under the locust tree, with the account book he had read countless times on his lap, and a pot of tea that Gu Wanniang had just brewed beside him.

His son stood before him, now appearing calm and composed, and was speaking to him in a low voice about opening a branch of the cloth shop.

The eldest grandson ran in from outside, clutching two crickets he had just caught, shouting from afar, "Grandpa, Grandpa, look!"

The little granddaughter hugged her newly made doll, nestled quietly beside her mother, and looked up at her with a sweet smile.

Gu Wanniang came out of the main room, poured him a cup of tea, and picked up the account book that had slipped off his lap and put it aside.

The back of his hands already had faint spots, and her hair was already streaked with silver.

She glanced at him, said nothing, but smiled slightly and pulled the thin blanket that was about to slip off his lap back up.

He looked up at the old locust tree overhead, then at the large family in the courtyard, and suddenly felt that it was alright if his life had just ended like this.

So he whispered:

"Locust blossoms fall again, filling the secluded courtyard; a rattan chair and the smoke of tea pass by in late autumn."

The books on her lap were nearly worn out from being turned over, while her granddaughter's voice remained soft and gentle before her.

Whether poor or rich, life goes on; what more could one ask for than simple clothes and coarse garments?

If swallows return from Qinghe, they will bring news to the world that we will grow old together.

After reciting the poem, he picked up his teacup, but the astringent taste of the tea could not suppress the faint emptiness in his heart.

He gazed at the old locust tree in the courtyard, at the leaves falling softly from its branches, and in a daze, he recalled the temple fair many years ago, the female opera singer waving her water sleeves on the stage, and the sense of bewilderment that seemed to come from nowhere.

But deep down, there's always a small, empty space inside.

I can't pinpoint what's missing, nor can I pinpoint where the pain is.

In the quiet of the night, I dreamt of a mountain peak whose face I couldn't quite make out. The sky was ablaze with the glow of sunset, and I felt as if a faint purple figure was standing beside me, turning his head to speak to me—but before he could utter a word, I awoke from the dream.

"I've heard there's a celestial master on the mountain outside the city who can resolve people's doubts," his son whispered as he approached him. "Father, should we go and ask him?"

He shook his head, smiled, and put down his teacup.

"At my age, why bother asking about immortal masters? This life has been enough..."

"Clang!"

A clear, resonant sound, like a chime, suddenly exploded in Su Yao's Spirit Platform.

The Prism trembled, and red, orange, and yellow light surged out like a tide, tearing a crack in the illusion that was about to completely close.

Su Yao's mind jolted, and the scriptures that had been etched into his bones since childhood echoed in his Spirit Platform —he suddenly remembered that he was not the cloth shop owner in Qinghe Commandery City who was slowly growing old with his wife and children.

He is Qixia Daozi, and he is breaking through to the Purple Mansion.

The locust blossoms scattered, the rattan chair overturned, Gu Wanniang's gentle smile, her grandson's shouts, her son's soft words about the cloth shop branch, along with the spring scenery filling the courtyard and the decades of history in Qinghe Commandery City, all turned into scattered fragments.

As Su Yao gazed at the fading illusion, at his own white-haired self sitting under the locust tree, and at Gu Wanniang's slightly smiling profile as she tucked the blanket around him, he suddenly understood why, throughout his long and fulfilling life, there had always been a small empty space in his heart.

His Daoist heart has not been extinguished.

Even though he forgot everything in the illusion, his pursuit of the Tao and his longing for that rosy glow still flowed silently like an underground river, striking his heart in every unexpected moment.

The gongs and drums on the stage echoed the opera troupe performing in the Two Rivers Gorge; the purple emptiness in his heart was the unfinished sentence Zilin had left for him.

I see.

It wasn't that the illusion was realistic; it was that he himself refused to completely succumb to it.

He turned his back and stopped looking.

But behind him, Gu Wanniang's figure appeared.

Sometimes she is young and beautiful, wearing a simple pale yellow dress, her profile softly illuminated by the light filtering through the window; sometimes she is shy and downcast, like when she lifted her veil on their wedding night; sometimes she is white-haired, with a gentle smile, like when she was sixty years old and tucked a thin blanket around him under the locust tree.

Her face changed with the passing years, but her outstretched hand never retracted—her fingertips trembled slightly, her palm facing upward, as if waiting for him to pick up the cup of tea that had not yet been finished.

"My husband."

She called his name softly.

The sound traveled through decades of falling locust blossoms, through the noise of his children surrounding him, through countless sunsets when he sat alone in his wicker chair, gazing at the horizon in a daze, and finally reached his ears.

The tea is getting cold.

He didn't turn around, but whispered:

"A chance encounter in this mortal world spans sixty years; a dream of Huai'an fades into the smoke of tea."

A virtuous wife and filial son seem like an illusion; the cranes' lamentations and the monkeys' sorrows are all in vain.

I am but a guest, my fate is but a tribulation; this body has already been given to the old mountains and rivers.

From this day forward, though we depart from the mortal world, the rosy glow of dawn still illuminates the sky.

After he finished speaking, a few tears, like rosy clouds, slid down his cheeks.

Behind him, Gu Wanniang's fingers curled slightly, as if she still wanted to gather the thin blanket that had turned into scattered fragments for him.

She watched his retreating figure, her tears mingling with the surrounding locust blossoms, scattering in the wind.

Her lips moved, but she didn't utter a sound. She simply slowly withdrew the hand that had been hanging there for sixty years and placed it on her heart.

There, a young man once gently called her "wife" when he lifted her veil; there, in his old age, she silently kept him company as he gazed at the horizon in a wicker chair.

She smiled slightly, a smile exactly the same as on her wedding night sixty years ago. Then, along with the decades of Qinghe Commandery City, she turned into a faint ray of light and disappeared into the boundless light of the Rising Yang Mansion.

Immediately afterwards, the radiance of the Prism steadily supported his entire mind, and the scriptures washed over every inch of his Spirit Platform like a clear spring.

The illusion vanished completely, and the radiant light within the Rising Yang Mansion suddenly intensified, simultaneously illuminating the colorful outlines on the black feathered robes—

Boundless Illusion, that's all.