The first time she saw him was at a banquet in the late spring.
At the time, she was the star performer at the Drunken Moon Pavilion. Dressed in red, she played “Ambush from Ten Sides,” leaving the entire hall enthralled. He was a young general who had just returned to the capital. He sat by the railing and watched her all night, his eyes shining.
He said, “When things aren’t so busy, I’ll take you to see the stars at the border.”
She said, “I don’t ask for a title. I only want you.”
Those were their happiest days. Beneath the flowers and moonlight, with her pipa and his sword, they thought the road ahead would be long and beautiful, with all the time in the world.
But this world is best at tearing beautiful things apart for everyone to see.
Rumors, impeachment, the emperor’s warnings: they were like two chess pieces, pushed around by fate until they had no say in their own lives. At last, an imperial edict sent him on a western campaign. Standing at the city gate, she pressed a winter coat into his arms.
“If you don’t make it back, send word with someone. I’ll burn paper offerings for you.”
He never made it back to see her one last time.
For six months, she coughed up blood by the window, gazing toward the city gate with the jade pendant he had left behind clenched in her hand.
He did not hate the world, nor did he hate fate. He simply missed her terribly.
Whenever he woke with a start in the middle of the night, he imagined she was still sitting by the window, plucking her pipa and asking him:
“Are the stars at the border really that bright?”
