CHAPTER 4

Sometimes I dreamed of him. In my dreams, he still wore that faint, unreadable smile; his voice still carried the weight of winter and warmth together. I would reach out for him—but always, before my fingers could touch, the vision dissolved into the cold.

One afternoon, I sat by the broken lattice window, watching snow begin to fall. Tiny flakes drifted into my palms, melting instantly.

I whispered to the wind, my voice soft but steady, “If Heaven still has eyes… let him know the truth.”

Rumors of ghosts surrounded the Cold Palace, and perhaps it was true—because on some nights, a faint melody could be heard from within: a lonely woman singing a tune of longing and betrayal, her voice breaking softly in the wind.

Yet even in that desolation, I never cursed him.

I remembered the way he once held me, the warmth of his hand against my shoulder.

So I waited.

Not for mercy, not for freedom—

but for truth to reach him, one way or another.

At first, the Cold Palace had been a cage—a place where laughter went to die.

But as the days trickled into months, something unexpected began to stir within its frozen silence.

The eunuchs assigned to deliver my food were young and timid at first, terrified of speaking too long with a disgraced concubine. Yet I greeted them with the same grace I once used in the grand halls—soft voice, gentle eyes, a smile that somehow warmed the shadows.

“Eat with me,” I would say, breaking her stale bun in half. The first time, they refused, trembling. The second time, they hesitated. By the third, they sat beside me, awkward but grateful.

Slowly, my empty world began to hum with small sounds—quiet laughter, shared meals, the rustle of old robes as someone tried to sweep the cracked floor.

One of the eunuchs, little An De, found an old zither in a dusty corner of the palace. Its strings were broken, but my deft fingers restrung it with threads from her own garments. When I played, the notes were soft and imperfect, yet somehow they filled the frozen air with warmth.

“Her Ladyship makes even broken things sing,” An De said shyly once. She only smiled.

Together, we planted small wildflowers in chipped porcelain bowls, using leftover rice water to keep them alive. I tended to them each morning, whispering that beauty could bloom even where light never reached.

The palace cats grew fond of us too—thin creatures with wary eyes who soon curled in my lap as I hummed lullabies. The eunuchs began bringing me scraps of fabric, broken combs, and discarded ink sticks. Bit by bit, the Cold Palace no longer felt like exile—it felt like a secret corner of peace, untouched by the empire’s cruelty.

Sometimes, at dusk, the young eunuchs would ask me to tell stories and recite poems. I would sit by the low window, the last glow of sunset painting my pale face gold, and speak of rivers, moonlight, and dreams that refused to die.

Even the guards began to say, in hushed tones,

“The Cold Palace doesn’t seem so cold anymore.”

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