HNYWEF -Chapter 186 Speaking in Riddles

The seventeenth day of the fourth month, fifth year of Zhenguan.

Inside Old Liu’s courtyard in Wagang.

Zhou Yi woke up just as dawn was breaking.

Nothing had disturbed him awake. He simply woke on his own.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the wooden beams overhead—darkened black with soot from who knew how many years of smoke. They looked exactly like the beams in the rundown hut outside the city where he had lived as a child.

He lay there for a while, his thoughts circling endlessly around yesterday.

His father crouching in front of the gravestone, fingertips brushing over the surface as though stroking someone’s hair.

His father leaving without once turning back.

His father saying that everything here would be left to him.

He sat up, got dressed, and stepped out into the courtyard.

The morning mist had not yet cleared. The air was damp, and dew clung to the grass along the walls. Standing in the middle of the yard, he looked toward the gray, hazy eastern sky and ran through those words again in his head.

Relocate the grave. Full authority to handle it. Find Uncle Cheng, Uncle Qin, his wife, and His Majesty.

When his father had said those things, his tone had not sounded like someone giving final instructions before death. It had sounded more like someone tossing away a burden—throwing it off and walking away without looking back.

Yizhou. Western Mountain.

He had never once heard his father mention either place before.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Zhou Yi turned around and saw Xie Yingdeng walking out of the room.

He was still wearing that dusty gray Daoist robe, his hair pinned up with a wooden clasp. There was little expression on his face, but his eyes were quiet and calm, just as they had been yesterday in the cemetery.

He glanced at Zhou Yi without speaking, then walked to the corner of the courtyard and crouched beside the water jar. Scooping up a ladle of water, he washed his face.

His movements were slow and deliberate, one after another, as though carrying out something important.

Zhou Yi stood where he was, watching him.

He remembered the cave yesterday.

This man had stood there with his back facing them, dressed in Daoist robes, looking like someone who had stepped out from the fog itself.

His father had called his name. He had turned around. There had been no surprise on his face, no excitement from a reunion after years apart. He had simply looked quietly at his father and said, “I just happened to be passing by.”

Zhou Yi did not believe he had merely been passing by.

But he had not asked.

After washing his face, Xie Yingdeng stood up, set the ladle back on the rim of the jar, then turned to look at Zhou Yi.

He spoke first, his voice soft.

“Your father left?”

Zhou Yi nodded. “He left alone. Told me to stay behind and handle the grave relocation. Said he was leaving full authority to me. He also said the people in Chang’an could help.”

As he spoke, his throat tightened slightly.

Not because he was sad.

Because he still could not understand it.

Why would his father hand such a heavy matter over to him?

He knew nothing. He had never handled anything like this before. Yesterday had been the first time he had even seen his mother’s grave.

Xie Yingdeng looked at him for several moments.

There was no sympathy in his gaze, no comfort either. He was simply looking at him, as though confirming something.

Then he smiled.

Not the faint twitch of lips that barely counted as a smile.

He truly smiled.

It was a light smile, but the tension in his whole body seemed to loosen, like a tightly drawn string finally slackening after being stretched for far too long.

He sat down on the stone stool in the courtyard, resting both hands on his knees. He looked at the clump of grass in the yard for a while.

Then he raised his head and looked at Zhou Yi.

“I can’t help you with this.”

His voice was level, as though stating something entirely ordinary.

“The people in Chang’an can arrange things far more thoroughly than I can. The things they’re able to do, I cannot. The people they can find, I cannot.”

Zhou Yi opened his mouth, wanting to say something—wanting to say, “You don’t need to help. Just you coming here already—”

But the words reached his lips and were swallowed back down again.

Because he knew that what Xie Yingdeng said was not mere politeness—he truly could not help.

He was a man alone, with nothing but a Daoist robe and a pair of straw sandals, drifting wherever the road took him.

He had no estate, no retainers, none of the powerful connections that could stir up storms in Chang’an.

He could not help with something like relocating a grave. But he had still come. He had stood before that mountain cave, stood in that patch of grass, stood before his mother’s grave.

Suddenly, Zhou Yi felt his eyes sting a little. He could not explain why. He lowered his head and stared at the tips of his shoes.

Xie Yingdeng rose and walked over to him.

He reached out and placed a hand on Zhou Yi’s head. That hand was cool and light, like a leaf falling gently onto him.

Zhou Yi looked up at Xie Yingdeng. Xie Yingdeng looked back at him, and in those calm, quiet eyes, something seemed to move.

“The next time you see your father,” he said, “he should be better by then.”

Zhou Yi froze.

Better? Better how? His father’s illness? Or something else?

What does “better” mean? How do you know? Do you know something I don’t?

He wanted to ask, but the words clogged in his throat, and not a single sentence came out.

He stood there, looking at Xie Yingdeng, looking into those quiet eyes, and suddenly felt that perhaps… he should not ask.

Some things could not be understood even if explained. Some words could not be made clear no matter how they were spoken.

Xie Yingdeng withdrew his hand from Zhou Yi’s head, turned around, and walked toward the courtyard gate.

His pace was neither fast nor slow. The dull gray Daoist robe swayed lightly in the morning breeze.

Zhou Yi hurried after him a step. “Uncle Xie, you—”

Xie Yingdeng did not turn back.

He walked out through the courtyard gate. His figure swayed once in the alley before vanishing behind the wall.

Footsteps echoed a few times through the alley, growing fainter and fainter, until they could no longer be heard.

Zhou Yi stood in the courtyard without moving.

The morning mist slowly dispersed. The sun rose in the east, shining warmly over him.

But he felt a little cold—a coldness spreading outward from inside him.

Li Lizhi stepped out from the house.

She stood in the doorway, watching Zhou Yi’s straight, motionless back, his shoulders faintly tensed.

She walked over and stood beside him without speaking. She simply reached out and held his hand.

Old Liu poked his head out from the kitchen, still holding a pair of fire tongs. He glanced toward the courtyard gate, then at Zhou Yi and Li Lizhi, and quietly withdrew again.

From the kitchen came the crackling sound of burning firewood, along with the fragrant smell of porridge.

Zhou Yi remained standing there, his mind replaying Xie Yingdeng’s final words over and over.

The next time you see your father, he should be better by then.

Better? What did “better” even mean?

He stood there for a long time.

So long that only when Old Liu came out carrying a pot of porridge and called him to eat did he finally snap back to himself.

He turned around and looked at Old Liu’s deeply wrinkled face, then at Li Lizhi’s quiet eyes, and suddenly felt that perhaps he really did not need to think so much.

The things his father told him to do—he would do them well. The people his father told him to find—he would go find them. His father had said, “I’m leaving it to you,” and he would carry it onward.

As for the rest… when he saw his father next time, he would know.

He sat down beside the stone table.

Old Liu ladled him a bowl of porridge, thick and steaming hot.

He picked it up and took a sip.

It burned.

He did not put it down. He took another sip.