Ripples of the Water

The woods on the mountain are dense, with slender and tall pine trees standing abreast, and the mellow and soft song of birds echoes from all directions.

The fallen leaves rustle as the group of five walk underneath the trees, and the sound of flowing water is becoming clearer and clearer.

The four cultivators laugh as they talk, and the soldier follows them to the spring silently, holding a woven basket in his arm as he looks for a secure rock to place it on. The expression on his face is strange; one part tranquil, two parts distressed – it is clear that there is something weighing down his heart.

It is as if the world around him and its reflections in those dark eyes are two completely different places; one without any thought to taint it, any emotion to affect it; and one darker, deeper, but also more vivid: more true.

In his ears, the cool breeze is cold like ice shards, and the air filled with birdsong is empty; there is the sound of the wind moving amidst the tall trees, the wind that brings the mellow scent of disappointment, of everything wasting away slowly around him.

The surrounding mounds are low-lying and mostly barren, and the vast sky takes up most of the horizon. There is something about the sight that makes a person feel helpless.

The soldier's thoughts can't help but wander as he's reminded of the smells of faraway places that can only be guarded deep in the heart with the utmost care, places that are nowhere to be found anymore, because in truth they are people and memories, and people pass just as memories fade as time goes on.

The spring water is cold and the fingers are stiff as they rub the fabric thoroughly.

The lanterns are loud, bright with colours as their light illuminates the riverside, and the music and lustre of long-gone days rings back in the ears. The stars gleam in the ebony veils of the night like laughter, like the bright gazes of those he had given everything for a chance to protect.

It is a pity that such a small person as him cannot stand against the backwash of matters that are greater than any man or nation, such a pity that even if he burnt his own life away for it, he could only spare a few moments of peace for people who were found so insignificant by even the heavens.

There is no closure, and not knowing only makes the soldier anxious, only makes him want to find out less and less, because when there is a chance of redemption, there naturally has to be one for ruination too. The chance is hazardous and not even his to take, therefore he can only choose to trust.

But it hurts like fire, like his flesh is on fire, burning slowly to the ash from the inside; every taken breath will only stir the flakes up, and he...

'...There is no blood on the cloth, and no reason to waste it in this way.' A sentence and a palm reach out to pull him back to reality, patting his shoulder in the process as if to console him silently.

[Washing her white and snowy pile of sheet,

In fresh well-water she sinks her feet,

The foamy stream is washing away the crimson-red stains,

Still washing her pile of sheet, she in that state remains.]

There is a blank expression on the soldier's face, and he glances up. Seeing the same familiar features as on that day, he is not phased in any way, and only nods, preparing to stand up and wring the fabric out.

The person's lips part momentarily as if he has something else to say still, but in the end he is unable to find the right words and can only turn to walk away.