Epigraph: If life were always as it was at first sight.
Vast and hollow, the darkness pressed in from all sides. A cold wind that cut to the marrow. Shifting shadows, drifting, circling. Silent lightning scattered a pale, ghostly green—illuminating the world for one fleeting instant, then vanishing without a trace.
Scree!
A sharp birdcall pierced Ding Songyan’s ears, jolting him awake. Sparks of lucidity flared through the fog of his stupor.
Where...
Where am I...
A dream? The realisation struck him all at once, and with it, the mories ca tumbling back.
Shit! He cursed inwardly, bitter and furious, and began to piece together what had happened.
How did I end up running into a bunch of lunatics like that?
In his youth, he had been sharp, precocious, good at his studies, and decent at sports. He had always thought highly of himself, looking down on this person and scorning that one, an arrogance of soone who had never yet been humbled. Then he left school, and the real world did not take long to grind him down. His confidence and pride were smashed to pieces. He would never have admitted it aloud, but he knew: he had beco both insecure and oversensitive during that stretch of his life.
Misfortune piled on misfortune. His family fell into trouble. He might have drowned in it—the unhealthy patterns, the lashing out, the wounds he inflicted on the people nearest to him—had soone not stayed beside him through all of it, encouraging him, steadying him. Bit by bit, he regained his confidence. In the end, he had done it—his business succeeded, and he beca a man of considerable ans.
He had thought everything would only get better from there. After a dinner banquet, he had chosen to carry on at an open-air restaurant with a few investors and key partners—reminiscing, toasting to the future. At so point, one of the investors got into a quarrel with a group of young n at the next table, and the shoving started. He stepped in at once to diate, trying to defuse the dispute. Figuring he had more to lose than they did, he had even prepared himself to bow and apologise on the spot. Who could have known...
Hey, what’s wrong with you?
You’re going to pull a knife over sothing this small?
If you’d just said you were unhinged, I would’ve stayed well clear. A dead investor is better than a dead !
What kind of lunatic does this?
"Good. Looks like I’m not dead yet... uh, probably not awake yet either..." Ding Songyan’s thoughts were still muddled, heavy with the sa stupor.
He tried to will himself out of the dream. His body felt pinned beneath sothing invisible, every movent an effort. His eyes were caught in the dark as though tangled in curtains. When he opened them, he could not see clearly; when he closed them, they would not shut.
Scree!
The birdcall again, drifting from sowhere far off, as though from another world entirely, indistinct and hazy.
Ding Songyan moved toward the sound on instinct, stumbling, lurching forward.
With each step he grew more alert. Each step ca easier.
The darkness around him thinned like smoke. The shadows fell away like figures in a dream. The ceaseless birdsong seed to be the only real thing in this world.
Then, all at once, a shaft of light broke through the dark. Then another. And another.
Ding Songyan’s eyes flew open, then snapped shut again from the sting of the brightness. Tears welled up.
Scree, scree, scree. Scree, scree, scree...
The clear, bright song of a bird wound through his ears from sowhere close, as if separated from him by only a wall.
"You’re awake?" A voice followed, bright with relief, lovelier than any birdsong.
Ding Songyan waited for his eyes to adjust, then opened them again.
He took stock of his body, searching for the pain that ought to exist and looking at the person before him.
She was a girl of fourteen or fifteen with her hair tied up in twin spiral buns. A pale jacket edged in silver over a gauzy goose-yellow skirt. Her features were picturesque—clean and vivid, bright with life.
She was crouched in front of him, watching him with open concern.
Ding Songyan had attended plenty of banquets—he had eaten, drunk, and seen his share of the world. Even so, the girl’s beauty dazzled him for a mont.
But it was other things that occupied his mind more urgently:
What hospital is this?
Surely wearing hanfu on shift is a bit unprofessional? Not exactly inspiring confidence in us patients!
"I— What’s my condition?" The words scraped out of him, and he heard how dry his throat was, as though his own voice belonged to soone else.
At the sa ti, he habitually began observing his surroundings.
One look, and he froze again.
This was no hospital. It was a ruined temple, its stone idol chipped and broken, weeds pushing up through the cracks between the flagstones. Sunlight slanted in through gaps in the walls and empty window fras, carrying the last of the retreating birdsong with it. He was sitting on the ground, propped against a wooden pillar.
Mistaken for dead, dumped in so forsaken place, discovered by a girl in hanfu out taking photographs? The thought surfaced from his school days spent reading novels, automatic and wry.
He dismissed it almost imdiately. Too many witnesses. A police car had been parked at the corner. That group of idiots would never have had the chance to move a body.
The girl answered his question with unguarded delight, "I checked. You’re fine!"
Fine? He looked down at his abdon.
Not a trace of pain... And this setting... This clothing...
No way. Did I transmigrate?
No, please. I haven’t even started enjoying life yet!
Ding Songyan raised his head slowly and looked at the girl, choosing his words with care.
"And you are...?"
He had already made a quiet inventory of his current body and found nothing. Not a single fragnt of mory belonged to him. His own past, on the other hand, sharpened by what he’d just relived, was clear as ever.
In that case, performing a role he didn’t know would only unravel him. No matter how quick his wit, a lie needed more lies to cover it. Once everything required lying, being exposed was only a matter of ti.
Better, then, to speak partial truths. No need to keep up a charade. He would not have to rack his brains performing every day or live in constant fear. The people around him would find their own reasonable explanations.
The girl with the spiral buns straightened slightly, her eyes brightening all at once. She tilted her head with the playful air of a stage perforr and asked with a grin, "My dear baby brother, don’t you recognise your own elder sister?"
She watched his face as she said it. His expression did not change. Still serious. Still frowning.
"..." The smile froze on her face. Sothing close to alarm crept into her voice, as she asked, completely abandoning her prank, "Second Brother, you don’t rember ?"
Ding Songyan shook his head, slowly, with every appearance of sincerity.
"I don’t rember anything."
The girl rose abruptly to her feet. "Co on! We have to go ho, right now. Mother and Father will take you to a physician. Oh no!"
She stopped halfway up, frozen in place like a figure painted on silk.
"What’s wrong?" Ding Songyan asked instinctively.
She made a pained face. "My legs have gone numb."
Ding Songyan tilted his head back and looked up at the cobwebbed rafters.
He stood up as well, confirming that he wore a pale moon-white scholar’s robe. His height was about the sa as before his transmigration, close to six feet.
"There, better!" The girl finally worked the feeling back into her legs, and reached for his sleeve at once, ready to pull him outside.
Ding Songyan stepped back without expression, causing her hand to grip onto air.
"Um..." She looked up at him, her black-and-white eyes full of bewildernt.
He spoke, unhurried. "How do I know you’re really my sister?"
"Well— I—" She stared at him, completely at a loss, as though the question had never, in all her life, occurred to her as a possibility.
Her lips moved. Nothing ca out.
Ding Songyan explained, with great seriousness, "Miss, I rember nothing. If you ant harm and I simply took you at your word and followed you ho, wouldn’t I encounter sothing terribly frightening?"
"That... that’s true..." She was visibly persuaded. Then her eyes shifted. "I know! I know what to do! I’ll go back and fetch Father and Mother. They can prove I’m your sister!"
Ding Songyan glanced at the girl, who had not yet fully co of age.
"And how would I know the people who co are really my father and mother?"
"..." Her mouth forgot to close.
A long mont passed. Her lips pressed together. Sothing indistinct and misty gathered at the edges of her bright eyes.
She burst out, aggrieved, urgent, half-panicked, "I’ll bring the neighbors! I’ll take you to the yan! Father is a clerk at the yan. His colleagues all know him. They can all swear he’s your real father! I am your real younger sister..."
"All right. I believe you." Ding Songyan suddenly spoke.
"Ah..." The girl stared at Ding Songyan in bewildernt.
Just like that?
Ding Songyan inclined his head slightly.
"I can tell you’re being sincere."
Offering to go to the local administrative office, the yan, unprompted and citing that many witnesses, was not the behavior of soone spinning a deception.
I’m willing to bet you’ve never seen The Truman Show!
"Sincere..." She tilted her head, studying him carefully for a long mont, then murmured without much conviction, "Should we go to the yan anyway, just to be sure? You’ve got half-doubting whether you’re even my Second Brother. We’d need soone else to look at you... the clothes... the face... the height... the birthmark... all match..."
While she deliberated, Ding Songyan ran a quick check of his body. No wounds. Energy, surprisingly intact.
Following the example of every period drama and novel he’d ever consud, he brought his hands together in a cupped-fist salute.
"Miss, how should I address you?"
"How should you address ?" She suddenly seed amused. "You always called Little Sister. Second Brother, you really have forgotten everything, haven’t you?"
She thought for a mont, then explained in detail, "You are my second elder brother. We have an eldest brother. Father and Mother are both living. We’ve been here in Dingjiang Prefecture for nearly half a year now, under the wing of our elder female cousin, Qin Nuansheng, from our mother’s side.
"My given na is Qingyan. You may call Little Sister or Sister Qingyan. Either is fine."
Ding Songyan took this in, and let his manner ease, just slightly.
"What is our surna?"
Qingyan made a soft sound and reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind her bun.
"Second Brother, you’ve forgotten even that? We’re Dings."
Ding... Sothing sharpened in Ding Songyan’s gaze. A premonition he hadn’t expected.
"And what’s my na?"
Qingyan tilted her head and stared at him for a long mont. Then she let out a quiet sigh, and said, low and a little sad, "Your na is Ding Songyan."
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