Chen Tang gazed up at the sky, as if he could see countless fireflies rising over the Yin Mountains. They danced through the night like sprites, seeming to tell a story as they sang the spirit-summoning song that the herdsmen had learned in Han Chinese from Zhaojun. The melody was lilting and mournful, like Zhaojun’s gentle voice, crossing the barriers of time to echo through the night sky above Chang’an. Chen Tang closed his eyes and let the song engulf him. His heart was filled with endless sorrow and longing: for Zhaojun, for the years gone by, and for life’s unpredictable turns.
