He carried a badge in his arms. It had been left behind by his mother. She came to this era twenty years ago and never went back.
The history books say that Yu Ji had only one line to her name: “There was a beauty named Yu, who was often favored and attended him.” He didn't believe it. He wanted to see what kind of woman she really was, to discover what lay behind “Farewell My Concubine.” If he could, he wanted to change that ending.
He didn't know what he would encounter.
He only knew that, that year, the morning mist over Kuaiji was so thick he couldn't see the road ahead. Standing in the fog, he heard a loom in the distance, its rhythm steady, as if someone were asking him: Where did you come from? You carry the scent of time.
He didn't know how to answer.
Only many years later did he understand. That scent wasn't time. It was fate. Someone had lived in his place. Someone had waited for him to ask. Someone had never revealed their name, even at the very end.
The river wind blew past, like a shuttle on a loom.
Back and forth. Weaving everything in, weaving everything away.
