I was a mineral prospector in Chengdu, who transmigrated into the body of a mortal sword immortal.

As the garden party ended, dusk fell. Guests departed one after another, the sounds of carriages and farewells mingling at the garden gate. Li Bai stood beneath a ginkgo tree, watching as a sedan chair adorned with tassels was lifted by four strong servants. The curtains hung low, obscuring the figures inside. The sedan chair moved further and further away along the bluestone path, finally disappearing into the twilight-shrouded street corner. Wu Zhinan walked to his side and whispered, "That's the Yang family's sedan chair." Li Bai remained silent. His gaze remained fixed on the direction the sedan chair had vanished, his fingers slowly clenching in his sleeve. In his palm, a pale green silk thread, picked up from the ground, lay—perhaps it had been accidentally snagged from her dress. The thread was very thin, almost invisible in the twilight, but he could feel its subtle texture, like a wisp of smoke he couldn't grasp.

Back at the inn, Li Bai sat by the window, examining the silk thread closely in the candlelight. The candlelight flickered, and the thread shimmered faintly, like newly sprouted willow leaves in spring. He remembered Yang Xiaohuan, who also liked to wear light green clothes; it was her favorite color. She said green was like spring, like hope. But later, she stood between two tattooed men, wearing that light green dress, and said to him, "Li Bai, stop bothering me."

The candle flame crackled and burst open, creating a tiny flame.

Li Bai closed his eyes, tightened his fingers, and the silk thread wrapped around his fingers, leaving shallow marks.

***

For the next two days, Li Bai hardly left his room at the inn. He sat by the window, watching the Huanhua Stream flow outside and the bamboo grove on the opposite bank change colors in the morning mist and twilight. Wu Zhinan came every day, bringing news, food, and wine. But Li Bai ate very little; often, the flatbreads Wu Zhinan brought would go cold before he had even touched them.

"Brother Li, you can't go on like this." On the evening of the third day, Wu Zhinan pushed open the door, carrying a pot of freshly warmed wine. The aroma of the wine mixed with the pungent smell of ginger slices instantly filled the entire room. He placed the wine pot on the table, then took out two rough porcelain bowls, filled them, and said, "You need to eat something and drink some wine. Man is made of iron, and food is steel. If you don't eat or drink like this, you'll collapse before the beginning of next month."

Li Bai turned his head and looked out the window. Dusk was falling, and the Yang family mansion across the Huanhua Stream had already lit up its lanterns. The scattered lights twinkled behind the blue brick walls, like distant stars.

"Brother Wu," he began, his voice hoarse from not speaking much for two days, "you mentioned before that there's a distant relative in the Yang family?"

Wu Zhinan's eyes lit up: "That's right! Yang Xuangui has a cousin surnamed Zheng who lives in the east of the city. He was a scholar in his early years, but his family fell into poverty and now makes a living by copying books and writing letters for others. I've inquired about him, and although Mr. Zheng is poor, he is an upright man and has some influence in the Yang family. Yang Xuangui occasionally helps him out and invites him to his residence for gatherings during festivals."

Li Bai stood up, walked to the table, and picked up the bowl of wine. The wine was warm, and the spicy aroma of ginger slices wafted up. He tilted his head back and drank it all in one gulp. The warmth flowed from his throat to his stomach, dispelling the chill of the past few days.

"Take me to see him," he said.

***

Mr. Zheng lived in a quiet alley in the east of the city. The alley was narrow, the bluestone path worn smooth by time, and the earthen walls on both sides were mottled and covered with withered vines. Wu Zhinan knocked on a faded wooden door, and an old voice came from inside: "Who is it?"

"Mr. Zheng, it's me, Wu Zhinan." Wu Zhinan raised his voice, "I visited you the day before yesterday."

The door creaked open. An elderly man, around sixty years old, wearing a faded blue cotton robe, stood inside. He had gray hair and beard, a gaunt face, but bright eyes. He held a calligraphy brush in his hand, his fingertips stained with ink.

"Young Master Wu," Mr. Zheng nodded, his gaze falling on Li Bai, "and who is this?"

"This is Li Bai, a young master who has traveled from the Shu Mountains. He is a very talented poet," Wu Zhinan quickly introduced. "Brother Li, this is Mr. Zheng."

Li Bai bowed respectfully and said, "Junior Li Bai greets Mr. Zheng."

Mr. Zheng sized him up a few times, then stepped aside and said, "Come in."

The house was small, consisting of only a main room and a side room. In the main room sat an old wooden table, upon which lay writing brushes, ink, paper, and several open books. Bundles of paper were piled in the corner, and the air was thick with the scent of ink and the musty smell of old books. Mr. Zheng invited the two to sit on the wooden stools at the table, while he himself sat opposite them. He picked up the teapot and poured three cups of coarse tea. The tea was cloudy, with tea leaves floating on the surface.

"My humble abode is simple; please excuse my humble appearance," Mr. Zheng said, pushing the teacup towards us. "May I ask what brings you here today, Young Master Wu?"

Wu Zhinan glanced at Li Bai, and Li Bai nodded.

"Mr. Zheng," Wu Zhinan said carefully, "to be honest, we have come here today to ask for your help."

Mr. Zheng picked up his teacup, took a sip, and said, "Speak."

"We've heard that Lord Yang Xuangui is hosting a family gathering in three days, inviting relatives, friends, and several local notables," Wu Zhinan said. "Brother Li has long admired Lord Yang's refined taste and would like to attend and learn from him. Could you please make an introduction?"

Mr. Zheng put down his teacup and his gaze fell on Li Bai again. His gaze was sharp, as if it could pierce through flesh and bone.

"Young Master Li," he began slowly, "why do you wish to attend the gathering at the Yang residence?"

Li Bai met his gaze without flinching: "I have traveled extensively and have heard that Lord Yang's mansion has a vast collection of books, and that Lord Yang himself is proficient in music and often makes profound remarks at literary gatherings. I am not very talented, but I have some knowledge of poetry and literature, and I would like to take this opportunity to learn from Lord Yang and all the senior scholars."

"Just asking about poetry and prose?" Mr. Zheng asked.

Li Bai remained silent for a moment. The candlelight flickered on the table, casting swaying shadows on his face. He thought of Yang Xiaohuan, of Yang Yuhuan, and of the touch of that pale green silk thread wrapped around his finger.

"Not entirely," he finally said. "I...want to see someone."

Mr. Zheng raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Yang Yuhuan, Lord Yang's niece." Li Bai's voice was calm, but each word seemed to be squeezed out from his chest. "At the garden party, I saw her from afar. She...she reminded me of an old friend."

The room fell silent. Only the crackling of the candlelight and the occasional barking of a dog outside the window could be heard.

After a long silence, Mr. Zheng sighed.

"Young Master Li," he said, "did you know that the girl Yu Huan has been chosen by the palace and will be setting off for Chang'an at the beginning of next month?"

"Know."

"Do you know what this means?"

"Know."

"Then you still want to see her?" Mr. Zheng's voice carried a hint of incomprehension and pity. "What good would it do? It would only add to your troubles."

Li Bai raised his head, and the candlelight reflected in his eyes, like two dancing flames.

"Mr. Zheng," he said, "there are some things that we know are impossible, but we still have to do them. There are some people that we know we should never see, but we still have to see them. Because if we don't see them, we will never have the chance again in this life."

Mr. Zheng stared at him for a long time. Finally, he slowly stood up, walked to the pile of books in the corner, rummaged through them for a while, and took out a piece of plain paper and a pen. He returned to the table, spread out the paper, dipped the pen in ink, and wrote a few lines on the paper. The ink was not yet dry, and it gleamed moistly in the candlelight.

"Tomorrow afternoon, take this letter to the Yang residence." He handed the plain paper to Li Bai. "In the letter, I will say that you are a distant nephew of mine, quite talented in poetry, and I wish to take this opportunity at the literary gathering to seek guidance from Lord Yang. Yang Xuangui, out of respect for me, should allow you in. But—"

He paused, his gaze turning serious: "Young Master Li, I'm helping you because I see sincerity in your eyes. But remember, the Yang residence is no ordinary place, and Yang Xuangui is no ordinary person. Be careful in your words and actions at the gathering, and don't overstep your bounds. Otherwise, not only will you get into trouble, but I will also be implicated."

Li Bai took the plain paper, his fingers touching its cool surface. He stood up and bowed deeply: "I understand. Thank you, sir."

***

Three days later, in the afternoon.

Yang Xuangui's residence was located on the north bank of the Huanhua Stream, facing the inn where Li Bai was staying across the stream, but to enter from the main gate, one had to take a long detour. Li Bai changed into a clean, dark blue long robe, his hair carefully tied up, and held Mr. Zheng's letter of introduction in his hand. Wu Zhinan accompanied him to the alley entrance and patted him on the shoulder: "Brother Li, I'll wait for you at the teahouse across the street. No matter the outcome, remember to come and tell me."

Li Bai nodded and turned to walk towards the gate of the Yang residence.

The gatehouse of the Yang residence was very tall, with copper nails nailing into the vermilion gate. Above the gate hung a plaque with the two characters "Yang Residence" in vigorous calligraphy. Two stone lions crouched in front of the gate, their mouths wide open, revealing their gleaming white teeth. Li Bai walked to the gate, took a deep breath, and raised his hand to knock on the door knocker.

"Thump, thump, thump."

Footsteps sounded from inside the door, the side door opened, and a doorman poked his head out, looking him up and down: "Who are you looking for?"

"I am Li Bai, introduced by Mr. Zheng, and have come to pay my respects to Lord Yang and participate in today's gathering." Li Bai handed over the letter of introduction.

The doorman took the letter, glanced at the handwriting on the envelope, and his expression softened slightly: "Wait."

The side door closed again. Li Bai stood outside, able to faintly hear the sounds of string and wind instruments and laughter coming from inside. The sounds were indistinct, as if separated by a layer of water, and difficult to discern. He looked up at the towering gatehouse, its blue bricks and gray tiles gleaming with a cold, hard luster in the afternoon sun. The osmanthus branches peeking out from the top of the wall were lush and swayed gently in the breeze.

After waiting for about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, the side door opened again. The gatekeeper stepped aside: "Come in, Young Master Li. The master is in the waterside pavilion in the back garden."

Li Bai stepped across the threshold.

Beyond the gate lay a completely different world. A straight path paved with bluestone led deeper into the passageway, flanked by neatly trimmed flowers and trees. It was early summer, and the roses were in full bloom, their pink and white blossoms clustered on the branches, releasing a sweet fragrance. At the end of the path was a moon gate, through which the eaves of pavilions and towers could be vaguely seen.

Li Bai followed the gatekeeper through the moon gate, and suddenly a bright and open view appeared before him.

This is a meticulously maintained garden. Artificial hills are piled up, the pond water is clear, and a winding corridor meanders through it. In the center of the pond stands a waterside pavilion with windows on all four sides, all of which are open at this moment, revealing a dozen or so people sitting inside. The melodious and gentle sounds of string and wind instruments emanate from the pavilion, mingling with the murmuring water, like a flowing painting.

The gatekeeper led Li Bai to the waterside pavilion and then withdrew. Li Bai stood at the bottom of the steps, straightened his clothes, and then climbed the steps.

The pavilion was spacious, with bamboo mats spread on the floor and a dozen low tables set out. Tea sets, fruits, and snacks were placed on the tables. At the head of the table sat a man around fifty years old, with a thin face, a long beard, and wearing a dark purple round-necked robe and a black turban. This was Yang Xuangui. To his left and right sat seven or eight guests, young and old, all dressed respectably, conversing in hushed tones.

Li Bai's appearance caused the laughter and conversation in the waterside pavilion to pause slightly.

All eyes were on him.

Yang Xuangui raised his head, his gaze falling on Li Bai with a scrutinizing look. He held Mr. Zheng's letter in his hand, which he had already opened.

"You are Li Bai?" Yang Xuangui asked, his voice not loud, but very clear.

Li Bai bowed and said, "Junior Li Bai greets Lord Yang."

"My cousin Zheng mentioned in his letter that you have considerable poetic talent and would like to take this opportunity to learn from me at this gathering." Yang Xuangui placed the letter on the table, tapping it lightly with his fingers. "In that case, please take a seat. Today's gathering is for literary exchange and friendship; there's no need for formalities."

"Thank you, sir." Li Bai sat down behind an empty low table near the door. The bamboo mat was slightly cool, and he could feel the chill through his thin clothes. He raised his head, his gaze quickly sweeping over the waterside pavilion.

Then, his breathing stopped for a moment.

On the right side of the waterside pavilion, by the window, sat a person.

She wore a light green dress, her hair styled in a dark bun, and her face was turned to the side as she looked down at the teacup in her hand. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window, casting soft shadows on her face. Her long eyelashes cast gentle shadows on her eyelids. Her slender, white fingers held the celadon teacup, their tips tinged with a faint pink.

It was Yang Yuhuan.

She wasn't wearing much jewelry today, just a small pearl flower in her hair. But this simple attire made her even more beautiful and refined, like a lotus flower just beginning to bloom, carrying the freshness of morning dew.

Li Bai's fingers tightened inside his sleeve, his nails digging into his palms. The pain kept him alert, preventing him from losing his composure.

"Gentlemen," Yang Xuangui's voice rang out, drawing Li Bai's attention back, "For today's gathering, I've set a small topic. Let's take the lotus flowers in this pond as our theme. Each of you may compose a poem or a lyric, what do you say?"

Everyone echoed this sentiment.

"Since it is Lord Yang who sets the question, we should obey."

"The lotus rises from the mud unsullied, embodying the virtue of a virtuous person—a fine title!"

"Who wants to go first?"

A middle-aged scholar in a blue long gown was the first to rise, clear his throat, and recite: "The clear pond reflects the red beauty, standing tall and graceful, sending forth evening fragrance. Unstained by mud, it remains true to its nature, and dances in the wind like a rainbow."

The crowd clapped and praised, "What a wonderful poem! 'Unstained by the mud, its true nature remains,' a brilliant line!"

Then several more people rose to recite poems, some praising the lotus's beauty, others its purity. The verses were all well-crafted, but lacked originality. Yang Xuangui listened with a faint smile, occasionally nodding, but his eyes remained largely unmoved.

When it was Li Bai's turn, the waterside pavilion fell silent.

All eyes were once again on him. Some were curious, some scrutinizing, and some were waiting to see him make a fool of himself. What real talent could this unknown young man, introduced by Mr. Zheng, possibly possess?

Li Bai slowly stood up.

He didn't speak immediately, but walked to the window and looked at the lotus flowers in the pond. It was the season when the lotus flowers were just beginning to bloom; the pink and white blossoms stood gracefully among the emerald green lotus leaves. A gentle breeze rustled the petals, making them tremble softly, like shy maidens. Sunlight shone on the water, creating shimmering ripples, and the lotus flowers were reflected in the water, a dreamlike interplay of reality and illusion.

He thought of Yang Xiaohuan. He remembered her sitting on a bench in the hospital corridor, head down, shoulders trembling slightly. He remembered her saying, "Li Bai, my parents' illness... requires a lot of money."

He thought of Yang Yuhuan. He thought of her clear, innocent eyes at the garden party. He thought of her about to set off for Chang'an, to that unfathomable palace.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his eyes were clear.

"This junior is not very talented, but I will attempt to compose a 'Lotus Picking Song'." He began, his voice not loud, but every word clear:

"The lotus leaf skirt is cut from the same cloth, and the hibiscus blooms on both sides of her face."

"They wandered into the pond unseen, but their songs revealed their presence."

There was a moment of silence in the waterside pavilion.

Then, someone made a soft "Eh" sound.

This poem is so simple. There are no fancy words, no profound allusions, just four lines of plain description. Yet, these four lines of plain description paint a vivid and lively picture: the lotus-picking girl's skirt is the same color as the lotus leaves, her face is reflected in the lotus flowers, she is among the flowers, and the flowers and the girl are one, until the singing voice comes and they are surprised to find someone there.

Simple, yet evocative.

Yang Xuangui raised his eyebrows slightly, his gaze lingering on Li Bai for a moment before he slowly nodded: "'Entering the pond unseen, only the sound of his song reveals his presence'—these two lines are indeed unique."

Yang Yuhuan, who was sitting by the window, also raised her head at this moment.

Her gaze fell on Li Bai, a hint of curiosity flashing in her eyes. This poem was unlike any other lotus-themed poems she had heard before. There was no deliberate elevation, no moralizing; it was simply a painting, a song. Moreover, the poem subtly harmonized with rhythm, making it easy to read aloud, like a melody that could be sung.

She was proficient in music from a young age and was particularly sensitive to the rhythm of poetry. The tones and rhymes in this poem are just right, especially the last two lines, which have a light and lively rhythm, as if you can really hear the singing of the lotus-picking girl coming from deep within the lotus leaves.

She couldn't help but glance at Li Bai a few more times.

The young man, dressed in an ordinary dark blue long gown, stood there with an upright posture and clear eyes. His poems, like his appearance, were simple and clean, yet possessed an indescribable charm.

Li Bai felt her gaze.

He turned his head and met her gaze.

Eyes facing each other.

This time, there was no shock or loss of control like at the garden party. Li Bai was mentally prepared; his eyes were calm, even carrying a hint of gentle smile. But it was precisely this calmness that made Yang Yuhuan's heart skip a beat. His eyes were too deep, like an ancient well, calm on the surface, yet concealing something indescribable beneath.

She hurriedly lowered her head, her cheeks slightly flushed.

"Young Master Li's poem is indeed refreshingly elegant," an elderly man sitting to Yang Xuangui said, breaking the brief silence. "However, I have a question. The poem says, 'Hearing the song, I realized someone was coming.' What kind of song is this? A lotus-picking song?"

Li Bai cupped his hands in greeting: "Indeed. When picking lotus flowers, young girls often sing. Their clear and melodious voices penetrate the lotus leaves, and the sound is heard but the people are not seen, which adds to the charm."

"I see." The old man stroked his beard and nodded. "It seems I was quite ignorant."

Yang Xuangui waved his hand: "Alright, the poem is finished, it's time to listen to the music. Yuhuan, have you mastered the piece you composed the other day?"

Yang Yuhuan stood up and replied softly, "Uncle, I've mastered it."

"Then let me play it for you to hear," Yang Xuangui said, "and let you all give your opinions."

A maid brought over a pipa. The pipa was made of rosewood, its body smooth, the tuning pegs gleaming with a metallic sheen. Yang Yuhuan took the pipa, sat down on the embroidered stool by the window, and held it in her arms. Her fingers gently brushed the strings, testing a few notes. The pipa's sound was clear and melodious, like jade beads falling onto a plate.

She looked up and glanced at Li Bai.

Then, the fingers plucked the strings.

The music began.

It wasn't the mournful melody of "Autumn Moon over the Han Palace," but a light and cheerful tune. The melody was lively, the rhythm brisk, like a spring stream, tinkling and flowing joyfully. Her fingers danced across the strings, sometimes lightly plucking, sometimes heavily strumming; the pipa's sound was sometimes like rain pattering on banana leaves, sometimes like wind rustling through a bamboo grove. Sunlight shone on her face; her eyes were slightly lowered, her eyelashes casting fan-shaped shadows on her eyelids, her expression focused and gentle.

Li Bai listened and watched.

His gaze fell on her fingers. Those fingers were slender and white, dancing across the strings like butterflies fluttering among flowers. He remembered Yang Xiaohuan, who also played the pipa. It was when they had just gotten married; she sat by the window of their rented apartment, holding an old pipa, playing off-key tunes. She said she had learned it as a child, but had given it up because her family couldn't afford it. But she would still occasionally take it out and play; those were rare moments that truly belonged to her.

The pipa music gradually softened, like a stream flowing into a deep pool, becoming long and lingering. The last few notes fell softly, their lingering sound echoing in the waterside pavilion.

After a moment of silence, everyone clapped and applauded.

"Great music! Excellent technique!"

"Miss Yang is not only exceptionally beautiful, but also remarkably talented!"

"This music should only exist in heaven; how often can it be heard on earth!"

Yang Yuhuan put down her pipa, stood up, and bowed slightly: "I've made a fool of myself."

Her gaze swept over Li Bai again, and she saw him still standing there, quietly watching her. His eyes were complex, containing admiration, nostalgia, and a deep sorrow that she couldn't understand.

The gathering continued. The group discussed poetry and music for a while longer, and Yang Xuangui also shared his thoughts on old Yuefu themes. Li Bai occasionally chimed in; his insights were often different from those of ordinary people, offering a unique perspective that intrigued the assembled scholars. Yang Yuhuan sat by the window, listening quietly, her gaze frequently falling on Li Bai.

She found the young man's way of speaking to be quite peculiar. He didn't use obscure allusions or quotations; he simply expressed his opinions in plain language. Yet, those opinions were often incisive and to the point. For example, when discussing Yuefu poetry, he said, "The essence of poetry is the expression of emotions. Yuefu poetry is moving because it sings of the joys and sorrows of ordinary people—it's real life, real emotions."

These words were too direct, even somewhat "unorthodox." The elderly gentlemen present frowned. But Yang Yuhuan, listening, felt they made sense. Wasn't her playing the pipa and composing music also an attempt to express her inner feelings?

The gathering lasted until evening.

As the sun set, the pond water turned a golden-red hue, and the lotus flowers appeared even more vibrant in the twilight. Yang Xuangui rose and announced that the gathering was coming to an end, thanking everyone for their presence. The guests all rose to take their leave.

Li Bai also followed the flow of people out of the waterside pavilion.

He walked slowly along the corridor. Dusk enveloped the garden, blurring the rockeries and pavilions into indistinct silhouettes. The air was filled with the fragrance of flowers and earth, along with the aroma of food wafting from the distant kitchen.

As they reached the moon gate, a maid dressed in a light green dress hurriedly caught up with them.

"Young Master Li, please wait."

Li Bai stopped and turned around.

The maid walked up to him, took a neatly folded piece of plain paper from her sleeve, and placed it in his hand. Her movements were quick and subtle, as if she were afraid of being seen.

"This is what my young lady asked me to give to you, sir," the maid said in a low voice. After saying that, she turned and hurriedly left, disappearing into the twilight.

Li Bai stood still, looking down at the plain paper in his hand.

The paper was thin and carried a faint scent of ink. He slowly unfolded it.

There was only one line of neat, small handwriting on the paper:

"Longing for You, in Chang'an."

Her handwriting is elegant and graceful, just like her personality.

Li Bai's fingers tightened, the plain paper rustling softly in his palm. He looked up into the moon gate. In the twilight, the lights of the waterside pavilion were already lit, casting flickering shadows on the window paper. He couldn't see her, but he knew she was there.

"Longing for You" is set in Chang'an.

This is an old Yuefu (folk song) title. It tells the story of a woman in Chang'an who longs for her lover who is far away.

What did she mean by saying those words to him?

Is this an implication that she is about to go to Chang'an, and from then on they will be separated by thousands of miles?

Or... something else?

Li Bai gripped the plain paper tightly, a complex mix of emotions welling up within him. There was hope, warmth, and a deeper despair. He looked up at the towering walls of the Yang residence; the branches of the osmanthus tree atop the wall swayed in the evening breeze, as if waving to him, or perhaps bidding him farewell.

Hope is like a blank sheet of paper in the palm of your hand, thin and light.

But reality is that high wall, thick, cold, and insurmountable.

He stood there for a long time, until dusk completely swallowed everything, before turning around and slowly walking out of the gate of the Yang residence.