Shen Yu

Shen Yu's courtyard was too small, her only amusement the few birds that flitted over the walls each day. But the man who strayed in that night was livelier than any sparrow. She tossed him a handful of birdseed as thanks for the evening's distraction. Yet she soon realized she'd been claimed. She'd heard of people feeding stray cats, only to have them linger for days. But this "bird" was no stray. His fine plumage spoke of pampering, his guileless eyes of sheltered inexperience. Why, then, did he keep returning? As thanks, he brought her stories every night, carried in on his tongue like nesting materials. Shen Yu loved stories. Her tiny courtyard offered only a sliver of sky. Every book in her collection held the same tedious virtues, handpicked by her father and neatly shelved. Every meal was measured, every hour dictated by a rigid schedule. Others live their lives like books, each page splashed with new colors, today's surprises bleeding into tomorrow's joys. But hers was a single sheet, the same characters pressed over and over, until the paper grew soft with handling, the ink fading to a tired yellow. He was her new page, her second story. He seemed a bird escaped from a wicker cage, but Shen Yu knew her own cage was heavier. His was woven of rattan, hers, of gilded chains. He could still flutter his wings. She couldn't even control her expressions. How could she keep this story? In her study, stacks of paper pressed down on her years, each day a tedious reprint of the last. But even the thickest manuscripts could burn with a single spark. What good would ashes do? Burn this room, and another cage will remain. Sever one chain, and a hundred more would bind her. She closed her eyes. Better to feed her bird, to pretend to obey.

Most of what Shen Yu heard in her life were things she never wanted to hear. Eventually, she stopped wanting to hear anything at all. It wasn't hard. After all, they'd taught her other things. How to smile, how to cry. How to smile a beautiful, decorous smile at a banquet, how to keep smiling long enough to let others save face. How to cry just right, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, not a tear too many, not a tear too few. So even when she stopped listening, she still wore that same practiced smile. So everyone said that Shen Yu was the most obedient girl in the world. But she hadn't always been so obedient. When she was six, she brought food to her father's study. She picked up a policy treatise and read it aloud line by line. Some characters she didn't know, so she read only half of them, flipping pages with a cheerful grin. When her father stormed out, face scowling, she didn't understand. And she got scolded by her father. She learned that reading what you're not supposed to read will earn you punishment. When she was eight, she slipped out of the estate for the first time. The streets were full of wonders she had never seen before, so many things to see. The next day, her father summoned her. Beside him stood two figures: a sharp-tongued grannie, and the pageboy who had followed her out yesterday. From then on, she studied under that grannie every day. How to cry, how to smile, how to walk, how not to eat more than a few bites. She learned that walking where you're not supposed to walk will earn you a punishment. When she was twelve, while out admiring flowers, she glimpsed her reflection in a pond. She stared at the smiling face in the water. Then she picked up a stone and tossed it in. Ripples blurred the smile into something eerie. Later, she was caned on the palms. Imperial Censor Shen asked her reason for being playful. She didn't answer. She didn't tell them that her smile had looked so fake it frightened her. She hadn't liked it. Because by then, she already knew that saying what you're not supposed to say will earn you a punishment. "A caged bird," someone once said, "just take the roof off, and it becomes a dragon. And a dragon can fly wherever it wants." They never understood. After telling Shen Yu a thousand things, how could they be undone by just a single sentence from someone else? But then again, a person is never truly moved by a single sentence. Unless it's something she's always wanted to say herself.

The sky that day was surprisingly clear. The window in the room was half open. There was a breeze in the courtyard— even a few birdsong notes. Shen Yu placed the flute gently on the table. Then she looked up, meeting the gaze of the bronze mirror before her. For the first time, she truly studied her own reflection. She looked at the face in the mirror— and at the smile she had worn for so many years, unchanged. She recalled the surface of the pond when she was twelve. But this time, there was no stone in her hand. So, in silence, she lifted her arm— and shattered the mirror. Then waited for the sound of footsteps. She saw people come rushing in, startled by the noise, their voices loud, cluttered, questioning what had happened. But in that moment, those voices were so close yet they felt distant. Very, very distant. Shen Yu said nothing. She simply stared at the shards of glass. In those fragments, the false smile had broken into pieces— along with her reflection, along with the girl she used to be. Then she heard a voice, very close. It was the old Shen Yu, whispering in her ear: "If seeing me brings you this much pain, then may you and I never meet again." She raised her head and heard them asking about the flute resting on the table. She raised her head again, looked at it calmly, and said, "Tell Father to come." "Tell him that today, I have a story to tell."