The next day, Zhang Yun watched her in silence for long seconds before approaching. His steps were slow, as if he feared that any sudden gesture might shatter what little remained between them. When he finally stood before her, his gaze shifted. There was no longer hardness in his eyes, but a trembling tenderness struggling to break through the guilt.
—From today on… you will remain in your pavilion again,— he said softly, barely above a whisper.
Before Meixin could respond, he had already turned his face and ordered one of the nearby servants:
—Prepare hot food. Something light… and sweet.
Then, without looking at her, he added more firmly:
—And assign two guards at the entrance.
He feared Meixin might try to escape again. But this time, not out of betrayal. Not out of cowardice.But because she wanted to get away from him.And that idea — so simple, so piercing — tore at him more than any reproach ever could.
She looked at him with distrust, feeling the invisible weight of a new cage—more luxurious, more golden… but a cage nonetheless.Never, not even in her worst nightmares, had she imagined that her first time with the man she had loved so deeply—her beloved Yun—would be like this: without love, without tenderness, marked by mistrust and pain.What she once dreamed of with hope was now just another wound in her weary soul.
A month passed. The leaves of the trees in the outer garden rustled softly under the touch of the autumn wind. The air began to cool, bringing with it the first scents of the season: damp earth, firewood burning in the kitchens, roasted chestnuts at the market stalls.
In the pavilion where Meixin resided, the tall walls and red paper lanterns stood as silent witnesses to her confinement. Every night, without her noticing, Yun would sneak in—only to watch her sleep. Sometimes, he would gently arrange her disheveled hair; other times, he would tuck her in carefully, ensuring she didn't feel the cold.
He watched her in silence, with guilt, with love, his heart full of words he didn't know how to speak. Because everything he felt weighed heavily on his chest, and still, he couldn't find a way to say it.
Two servants, dressed in gray cotton robes, stood at either side of the outer corridor. They did not speak. They barely moved. Their empty eyes followed Meixin's every step. One of them, younger, lowered his gaze each time she looked directly at him. The other, tall and thin, didn't even bother to hide his presence—it was a cage with invisible bars.
She walked slowly through the gallery, wrapped in a gray wool cloak. Her steps were steady, but her face betrayed the tension in her body. Her hair fell like a dark veil over her shoulders. Her eyes held no more tears, only the depth of someone who had learned to endure in silence. When one of the guards followed her with his gaze, she stopped and shot him down with a single word, spat with disdain:
—Will you follow my thoughts too?
He lowered his eyes but said nothing. She turned, frowning, and returned to her room.
There, in the solitude of midday, it all began.
At first, it was a light dizziness. Then, a pang in her stomach. Meixin leaned against the edge of the lacquered wooden table, breathing with difficulty. A sudden pallor spread across her face. As she bent forward, a bitter nausea rose in her throat. She ran to a vase and vomited quietly, stifling any sound. She remained on her knees, trembling, not fully understanding what was happening to her.
Hours later, with whispers and caution, she sent Zhen to fetch a doctor. She couldn't trust anyone else. When the old man arrived, he wore a dark linen robe embroidered with copper-thread edges. His hands were thin but firm, and his eyes, sunken with age, moved sharply behind cracked jade lenses.
—Dizziness, nausea, weakness?— he murmured as he took her pulse with two bony fingers. —Your pulse is soft but deep… Madam, you are pregnant.
The world seemed to pause for a moment.
Meixin stared at him blankly, as if she couldn't comprehend the words. The old man waited in silence, then bowed, muttering a blessing to protect the child, and left without another word.
She remained alone, seated by the window.
—A child…?
She hadn't wished for it. Not like this. Not in this context. But the thought of a life growing inside her—innocent, pure, untouched by all she had lived—began to plant something warm within her chest.
One afternoon, she went to the market with Zhen, under the excuse of buying fabric for a dress. Followed at a distance by the two guards. She wore a dark cotton robe. She walked slowly, watching vendors shout prices, women choosing vegetables, children running with bites of fruit in their hands. Then she saw it: a fabric stall, rolls of ivory linen, with tiny knots forming intertwined lotus flowers.
—This is it…— she whispered, and brushed her fingers over the cloth.
Zhen looked at her, confused, until Meixin smiled gently for the first time in weeks.
—For his clothes. I'll make his first outfit with this.
Zhen smiled.
On the way back, Meixin hid the rolls among her belongings. Each night she sewed a little more, in silence, her fingers still weak, but steady.
One morning, while speaking softly with Zhen in the room:
—How long do you think before it shows?— Meixin asked with a timid smile.
—A few more weeks…— Zhen replied, sitting beside her. —But it already shows in your eyes, my lady. There's a different light.
—Sometimes I think… about telling him,— Meixin whispered, looking at her hands in her lap. —But I'm afraid. I don't want this child to grow up hated… the way I've felt.
From the corridor, Zhang Yun had stopped.
He wore a dark silk robe with golden trim. His hair was tied in a high knot, held with a jade pin. His lips were pressed tight, his hands clenched at his sides. He couldn't move. The words he had just heard echoed in his chest like temple bells.
—Pregnant?
The breath left his lungs. He stepped back, as if the ground had shaken beneath him. He closed his eyes.
A wave of emotions surged through him: astonishment, joy, hope… and guilt. For a moment, he wanted to run and embrace her, fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness for everything. But then, he heard her say:
—I don't want him to look like his father… I don't want him to inherit his cruelty.
The blow was sharp. Like a spear straight to the heart.
Without saying a word, he turned on his heels and walked away. Pride, his constant armor, rose once more like a wall between them.
That night, Meixin continued sewing in silence. A small robe was beginning to take shape on her lap.
And in another part of the pavilion, Zhang Yun remained awake, staring at the sky from the balcony, silently wondering if he could ever mend what he had broken… or if it was already too late.
Then, in the deepest stillness of the night, Zhang Yun went to Meixin's room. With silent steps, he approached the bed and slowly knelt down. His hands trembled slightly as he reached toward her, but he didn't touch her right away. He looked at her first—watched her steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her beautiful face, her hair.
Then, with tenderness, he placed a hand gently over her belly. He remained there for several minutes, his forehead bowed, his hand still against her, as if that simple gesture could protect what was not yet visible, but already meant everything.
When he finally stood, he wanted to kiss her on the forehead, but he was afraid of waking her. He left the room the same way he had entered it: like a ghost, carrying in his chest a love he still didn't know how to redeem.