Xiao Shi

"What should I bring if I'm heading to the jianghu?" Eight-year-old Xiao Shi asked the martial arts master his father had hired, legs locked in a horse stance. The old man, sitting on top of a rockery in their courtyard, snorted and tossed a pebble at his knee. "What should you bring? Your father's curses." Back then, Xiao Shi was a walking disaster—climbing rooftops, running off from home, brawling other kids with wooden swords. If there was a way to infuriate his father, he'd find it and do it twice. Deputy General Xiao, already burdened with court affairs by day, would wake in the middle of the night muttering, "That damn brat," before tossing and turning again. The little house on the backside of the Xiao estate became Xiao Shi's regular haunt. How often he stayed depended on how many times he'd driven his father out of bed cursing. Whenever the servants heard shouts like "Help! Murder's a crime!" Echoing from that room, they'd sigh and mutter, "Young Master's upset the lord again." Lately, the deputy commander had added two more locks to that door. This was their worst fight yet. "If you dare let me out, I swear I'll leave this wretched place in a heartbeat! I'm going to roam the jianghu!" "As for that Miss Shen, even if you beat me to death, I'm not marrying her!" After that "wretched place" rant, one more lock was added the next morning. By midday, after the "beat me to death" declaration, Deputy General Xiao gave the door a good kicking: "No sense of right or wrong!" But Xiao Shi didn't think he lacked a sense of right and wrong. He already had it figured out. There were only two kinds of things in this world—what he liked and what he didn't. What he liked was right. What he didn't was wrong. And he had already decided to only do the right things. He knew from long ago he wouldn't stay here forever. If he ever went out into the jianghu, he'd take just two things: a flute and a sword. The sword to spar. The flute to play after winning, and to tell stories. Stories he heard, stories he lived. "And who would you tell them to?" "Doesn't matter who hears them. What matters is the story itself! But I can tell you one thing—it sure won't be Miss Shen. I really don't like her."

The moment Xiao Shi fled the Xiao estate, he looked ahead to the jianghu man helping him escape, and behind him to the servants chasing him, and he laughed. The wind rushed past his ears, his robes flaring wildly. There's a kind of illusion that comes with running into the wind, an illusion of freedom. He felt like a bird loosed from its cage. Not flying to the sky, but into the jianghu. He only stopped once on the road to freedom by the Shen estate. He disliked places where the wind didn't stir, and the Shen estate was clearly one of them. The rear courtyard where the Shen family's young lady resided was far too lifeless. He recalled the smile she always wore when they met, always the same, never changing. She was pretty, that he remembered. But the more he looked, the more she seemed... unreal. Later, he realized what she reminded him of. Like the ornate rockeries set in noblemen's courtyards. Like the finely carved jade displayed in the great hall. Like the velvet blossoms that never wilt, no matter the season. Every wealthy household wanted one, but they were things that never changed, never moved. People collect jade. But no one falls in love with it. That impression stuck with him so strongly that when Shen Yu, whom he had always thought to be just like the lifeless stones and rockeries, suddenly opened her window without a smile, told a lie, and casually used birdseed to tease him, he froze. That tiny spark of life in her cast him out. He stood outside her window for a long while, confused. "She wasn't like this before," he thought. But then, what was she supposed to be like? Like a rockery? Like a piece of jade? No. She was a person. She was always supposed to be like this. Because people shouldn't be like rockeries. They shouldn't be like jade. People should be like people. But too many in this world... don't know that.

The good news was, he discovered Shen Yu liked stories. The bad news? She only liked the stories. The little trinkets he queued hours for at Fairgrounds stalls, Shen Yu wouldn't take a single one. So what could he do? He told her more stories. Better stories. And the way she smiled while listening was so different from when they first met. He liked that smile. So much so, he wanted to tell her every story in the world. He thought long and hard about it. Back when he escaped the Xiao estate, he'd felt like a bird let loose from its cage. But that night... someone had tossed him a handful of birdseed. So maybe it was okay to linger a little longer. People say a single meal deserves gratitude. What was this, then? A debt for birdseed? Whatever kind of debt it was, he just wanted to find ways to make her smile. He meant that, truly. But what if she stayed unhappy? She'd lived like that before, hadn't she? And she made it through just fine. But now... now it felt different. What was different? He kept asking himself, but no answer came. Only that when she smiled, he smiled too. And so he wandered outside the Shen estate for days, for nights. "You're not going to the jianghu anymore?" "Just... waiting a bit longer." Shen Yu only seemed to smile in fleeting moments at night. Sometimes, when she caught him coming or going, she'd lose focus. He needed to understand why she was unhappy. He started eavesdropping on the maids' whispers, studying every quiet corner of that lifeless courtyard. He looked up. This place was far too still. Not even birdsong can be heard. The air itself felt stifled. It didn't suit her. If he lived here, he'd have torn the roof off just to let some sky in. To breathe some life into a place that barely let birds sing. "A caged sparrow," he mused, "take the'roof' off the cage, and what do you get? A dragon." He was very proud of that one. A dragon returns to the sea. A bird soars into open skies. Maybe then, Shen Yu would smile more. "Hey! Leaving this time for real?" "Just... waiting a bit longer." "What about your stories?" Stories do matter. But lately, it feels like what matters most...is telling them to a specific person.