The Three Years After Qi Min's Death

Everyone in the imperial palace knew there was a ghost in the Empress Dowager's chambers.

The palace maids whispered among themselves, the eunuchs shivered, Fan Changyu rubbed her arms and said, “Why is it so cold in here?” Xie Zheng frowned and said, “The ventilation isn't very good,” and even Bao'er tilted his head and said, “Mother, I keep feeling like someone's behind me.”

Only Yu Qianqian had no idea.

She sat in the phoenix chair directly beneath the rafters, reviewing memorials, drinking tea, and daydreaming, perfectly calm, as if the chill pervading the entire palace had nothing to do with her.

Qi Min floated above her, his heart a tangle of emotions.

Someone had put flowers in his own urn, used his memorial tablet as a paperweight, and the entire palace thought he was a hideous, blue-faced demon who ate children. Meanwhile, his widow, the woman who sat right beneath his nose every day, had no idea.

He sighed.

Then Yu Qianqian said without looking up:

“Stop sighing. It's annoying.”

Qi Min's soul nearly burst apart.

“You, you can hear me?”

Yu Qianqian turned a page of her memorial. “I'm not deaf.”

“Then you've known I was here all along?”

“Obviously. I arranged your ashes, and I put up your memorial tablet. Why do you think I put flowers in your urn?”

Qi Min: “...”

“Those are my ashes.”

“I know.”

“That isn't a vase.”

“I know.”

“Then why, ”

At last, Yu Qianqian looked up and glanced toward the rafters. Her gaze was as calm as if she were looking at a cat she'd had for three years.

“Because it looks nice.”

Qi Min felt that his entire understanding of ghosthood had been dealt a devastating blow