They lived next door to each other in Chang'an. He rode a bamboo hobbyhorse, and she played around the bed with a green plum. But he rode not bamboo, but a prayer cushion, and he did not come to her. She was the one who went to him.
From the moment she was young, she was captivated by the young monk's handsome face. From then on, she secretly gave him her heart.
At fifteen, she was forced to travel to a foreign land and become the consort of an enemy ruler. When they met again, she was a consort, and he was a Buddha. Heartbroken, she regretted everything. Years later, after successfully restoring her country and reclaiming its lost lands, she was broken but still mustered the courage to seek him out once more. The ancient temple stood deep in the mountains. Where could she find the man she once knew?
He left behind a single tombstone for her.
Time passed, and youth faded. In a daze, she remembered her wedding night: the king had kissed her hair. She remembered the monk's warm palm, and tears streamed down her face.
The question she asked him most was, “Did you ever love me?”
The answer he gave her most was, “I never loved you.”
All this time, she had thought that in this dreamlike life of hers, she had spent most of it reaching for him and loving him.
But how could she have known? “He spent most of his life trying to get closer to her, and used up all his courage doing so.”
Was it love? No!
It was a love forged by tearing away his own flesh and blood, the dream of a young monk who saw a girl and became devoted to her for the rest of his life.
