Beijing's Residual Dream

On the day I was deposed, I knew that the young man I loved was buried with my own hands in this palace. The wind in the north is like a knife, blowing away the last bit of warmth from the body. With these hands, it is now difficult to even hold a pen steady, and the joints are twisted that will never go away. He stood in front of me, his black dragon robe spotless, and he frowned and asked, "You have been living here in seclusion since you were deposed. Do your father and brother know?" My whole body froze, and the sense of absurdity froze my blood - he didn't know that the grass on the Shen family grave had withered for three years. Then I smiled, took a half step back, and let the rough northern wind fill the space between us. There is no queen, no concubine, and no majesty here. There is only Shen Rong who doesn't need anyone to know. Later, with red eyes, he begged me to go back, saying that he would grant me a posthumous position and supreme honor. I touched the hideous scar on my palm, and suddenly I wanted to know if spring in Jiangnan was coming soon.