Night draped thick over the city, but Tongming Ward felt like another world entirely.

  Years ago, this place had been a haven for scholars — a district of bookshops, painting studios, and scripture houses. Gentlemen with scrolls in hand wandered its lanes, discussing verse and brushwork. The ward’s first owner, a cultured man who adored the poet Wang Youcheng, had named it Tongming, meaning “clarity of light.”

  But time changed hands. The new landlord had no taste for poetry — new streets were cut through, stalls sprang up selling everything from cloth to candied plums, and the air that once smelled of ink now reeked of oil and chatter. The place was bustling still, but the old elegance had been scattered to dust.

  We hadn’t gone far before two lines of night guards blocked our way.

  “Curfew’s in effect. Tongming Ward is closed for the outsiders after midnight. State your business,”

  the captain barked, eyes narrowing as he sized us up.

  Gu stepped forward, calm as ever, producing a folded letter sealed with the Prefect’s red mark.

  “Gu Zixu,” he said with a polite bow. “We’re under orders to investigate an ongoing case — need to check a certain book hall tonight.”

  The guard gave the paper a glance, relaxing a little—until his gaze fell on me.

  “Hold on… I’ve seen this one before. Weren’t you the guy fighting crickets outside the town last week?”

  I straightened immediately. “I don’t know any crickets. I don’t fight bugs. I don’t watch plays. I’m a law-abiding citizen, thank you very much.”

  Mu gave a dry cough and tugged me back a step. “He’s a mountain herbalist,” he said coolly. “My apprentice. Knows bones and roots, not much else.”

  The guard snorted. “You hillfolk sure spin pretty stories.”

  Gu, unfazed, pulled out a bronze pass token and handed it over.

  “Official permit from the Prefect’s office. We’ll be in and out before dawn.”

  The man inspected it, his posture stiffening. “Ah—my apologies, sir. Lord Wang himself is on patrol inside. Please proceed, but stay off the main street. There was trouble there last night—patrols are heavy.”

  We thanked him and slipped through the narrow lane.

  Tongming Ward at night was nothing like its daylight face. Lamps still burned, teahouses still hummed, and a few street painters huddled by the walls — yet everything felt… muffled. The vendors whispered as they packed their wares, and even the hawkers called out like they were afraid to be heard.

  “This place feels more like a wake than a marketplace,” I muttered.

  “Not far off,” Gu replied. “A servant vanished here last night. They’re saying it’s haunted — ghost fires, crying voices. Most shops closed early. The ones left… are the brave or the desperate.”

  “Ghosts again?” I groaned. “Don’t tell me this is another ‘General Yu’s Revenge’ situation.”

  “Where’s this Huaisu Hall, anyway?” Mu asked.

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  Gu pointed ahead. “End of that alley. Used to be a famous library — the Li family’s private collection. Their ancestor was a scholar in the Ministry of Rites, owned ten thousand scrolls. But times changed. Ever since their only daughter, Li Qing, died of illness, the master shut himself in. Doesn’t see guests.”

  “Eccentric, huh?” I whispered.

  “Perhaps,” Gu said. “They say he loves books more than people — even built shelves over his bed. But Li Qing… she was quiet, gentle, wore pale robes. Beautiful, too, by all accounts. Had a close friendship with Miss Liu — they were said to be inseparable. Miss Liu often visited, sometimes every few days.”

  “Beautiful, you said?” I asked.

  Gu gave me a look. “Poets described her as ‘brows like new moon, voice like wind through bamboo.’ You can imagine the rest.”

  I rubbed my chin. “Sounds like how storytellers talk about their favorite junior sister…”

  We turned the last corner. Huaisu Hall stood alone behind a crumbling wall, its gate dark and unlit. The wooden plaque above the door was half-faded, the three characters for Huaisu Hall barely legible.

  “If Chun-niang was coming for the letter, she’d arrive around now,” Gu murmured.

  I crouched to peek over the wall—only to step on a cat’s tail.

  “Mrrrow!”

  The cat screeched. I flailed, nearly tumbling into a flowerbed before Mu grabbed my arm, half-laughing.

  “You call that courage? You’re lucky ghosts don’t faint.”

  “Hey! These city cats are smarter than people these days. Might’ve recognized me!”

  The gate wasn’t even locked. We pushed it open, and a wave of old paper and incense washed over us — that dry, sweet scent of books long undisturbed, with a faint undertone of sandalwood and age. It was like stepping into someone else’s memory.

  The main room was sparsely furnished — one table, two old shelves, a few faded scrolls on the wall. A curtain at the corner hid a small bed, neatly folded blankets untouched for who knows how long.

  “This was Li Qing’s room?” I whispered.

  Gu nodded. “She was frail from birth. Spent most of her life here, copying sutras. Miss Liu kept her company — they were nearly inseparable.”

  I scanned the room. It felt less like a young lady’s chamber and more like a scholar’s study — austere, almost ascetic. Only a single pot of narcissus in the corner hinted at a woman’s touch.

  But that flower… was fresh.

  Something clicked in my head. I crouched down, moving the pot aside.

  “Here,” I whispered to Mu.

  He leaned in, pressed a finger to the floorboard, and—click—a plank popped loose. Beneath it sat a small wooden box, worn smooth by years of handling.

  I brushed the dust away and lifted the lid. Inside were several letters, written on fine white paper now tinged yellow with time.

  Gu’s voice was low. “So the letters were real.”

  I drew out the top one and unfolded it.

  To Qing:

  The spring blossoms have fallen, and the summer rains draw near. I still remember our promise from last year as if it were made yesterday.

  The world sees love between man and woman as something bound by propriety. I don’t know what we are, only that if you choose to stay, I’ll never leave. And if you must go, I won’t ask you to turn back.

  You know me—I’d never ask you to yield, nor would I want you to.

  This world has no place for the two of us together, but to have you, even for a while, was worth more than gold.

  — Liu

  When I finished reading, my throat tightened.

  “This wasn’t written for any ‘Third Son of the Zhuo family,’” I said quietly.

  Mu read over my shoulder, his expression hardening. “Written by a woman… but not to a man.”

  I nodded. The tone was too intimate, too solemn. Not the words of a love confession — but of parting. Of two souls standing side by side, facing a world that had no place for them.

  “If no one knew better, they’d think it a simple romance,” I said, sliding the letter back into its box. “But this handwriting—it matches the note hidden in the rouge case from the case file. Miss Liu wrote both.”

  Just then, a soft cough broke the silence.

  We turned sharply.

  An old man stood at the doorway, holding a lamp. His expression was calm — cold, even — but not angry.

  His hair and beard were snow-white, though his robe was clean and neatly bound. The lamplight flickered over the lines of his face, and his eyes gleamed dark and deep, like autumn water.

  Gu bowed his head slightly.

  “Master Li.”