Retribution and Repairs

Chengyu stood in the center of the courtyard, where the sole apricot tree stood as a lonely guardian amidst the decay. He watched a single leaf flutter to the ground, its descent illuminated by the early morning light. Around him, the four hallways branched out like the limbs of the tree, each leading to rooms that whispered their own tales of disrepair. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that penetrated the gloom, and the faded walls bore the scars of time unkind.

The decrepit state of the place had bothered him since he first arrived. Not having modern amenities was difficult enough, but seeing someone as wonderful as Xiuqin live in squalor tugged at his heart strings, making it all the more unbearable.

He took a methodical step forward, the gravel underfoot lending a crunch to the silence. His mind, usually a haven for ancient verses and philosophical musings, was now occupied with thoughts of paint, brushes, and the laughter that might once again fill these halls. Xiuqin's absence this morning offered him the canvas of time, and he resolved to repaint her world with care.

"Xiangcui," he murmured to himself, envisioning the skilled hands of his acquaintance as essential to his plan. He ventured into the village, his gait steady, though his heart thrummed with an unfamiliar rhythm — a mix of determination and unease.

"Where might I find Xiangcui?" Chengyu asked an elderly vendor, who pointed down the winding street toward the lanterns that marked the threshold of desires.

Sighing, he trudged over to the grand, three-story structure. From their balconies, ladies waved and sang sweet temptations, but he had a mission.

The brothel's highly ornate entrance loomed before him, draped in silk and secrets. A young attendant greeted him with a smile that held both invitation and calculation. "Welcome, sir. How may we serve you today?"

"I am here only for Xiangcui," Chengyu stated, his voice flat, betraying none of the curiosity that the establishment's reputation might have sparked.

"A-Xiang? She finally has friends?" Lady Li emerged from behind a beaded curtain, her presence formidable despite her delicate frame. "But nevermind that unshapely woman. Surely you can spare a moment to indulge in our hospitality, Young Master."

He uncomfortably scooted back, curious about who was spreading his name. Likely the accursed Hua, who couldn't go anywhere without strumming a ditty.

"Forgive me, Lady Li, but my purpose is singular today." Chengyu's gaze remained unyielding, even as he felt the tug of the opulent surroundings on his senses.

"Then at least sit," she said, directing him towards the tearoom with a hand adorned in jade. "I shall send for her. As you wait, enjoy complimentary tea."

Chengyu nodded and veered toward the left, where a small, cozy room had a ring of wooden benches lining the wall in a U-shape, leaving a small mouth for the entrance. On the seats were soft, tediously embroidered cushions. He chose to sit by the window, facing the wall opposite him. A mural of a dancing lady hugged the wall, and just beneath it was a small set of steps leading to a stage.

This was exactly where he'd sat after the hunt, yet the air was more welcoming and mellow now. He supposed it was empty because most came to quench other appetites, but while he'd long since longed for companionship, Chengyu had to admit that socializing was more tedious than he realized.

As he sat, surrounded by the heady aroma of tea, his thoughts wandered back to the quietude of Xiuqin's courtyard. He pictured the apricot tree, not as it was, but as it could be — with blossoms that rivaled the painted faces around him, branches that reached for tomorrow. He imagined Xiuqin's expression upon seeing her home reborn, and his heart swelled with a sense of purpose that transcended mere aesthetics.

"Thank you, Lady Li," Chengyu said softly, more to himself than to his hostess. "For your understanding."

Turning away, Lady Li departed unceremonious with a grunt and the swishing of robes.

In the silence that followed, Chengyu could almost hear the heartbeat of the house that awaited him — the pulse of potential that beckoned him to return and weave the threads of change through its aging fabric.

His fingers traced the rim of his teacup, the porcelain cool and smooth beneath his touch. The steam rose in lazy spirals, carrying with it the delicate scent of jasmine that seemed to dance around the edges of his consciousness. He watched the vapor dissipate into the air, much like his thoughts drifted toward the ethereal melodies he had heard on the day of the hunt — a haunting echo that now seemed to fill the corners of the tearoom.

The sound of soft footsteps approached, and Chengyu lifted his gaze as a woman with the erhu entered the room. She moved with an elegance that seemed at odds with the establishment's gilded excess, her presence a poignant melody in a cacophony of silk and chrysanthemums.

"Good morning," she said, her voice as gentle as the music she played. "I remember you from the hunting party. You were quite taken with my erhu."

"Ah, yes." Chengyu nodded, a warmth blooming within him. "I've always loved music, especially the classics." Well, for her, they weren't classic. "Tell me, how did you come to play such an instrument?"

"Life has a way of guiding us to unexpected places," she replied, sitting across from him. Her fingers caressed the erhu's neck, a tender gesture of familiarity. "For me, it was finding solace in the strings when words fell short. And you? What draws you to the melodies?"

"Perhaps the same," Chengyu mused aloud, his thoughts a tangled skein he longed to unravel. "A search for solace. A need to connect beyond the tangible."

From there, the conversation flowed effortlessly, like a duet between kindred spirits. Though their lives danced to vastly different rhythms, Chengyu found solace in her playing, another type of pleasure in her company. Neither of their character mattered; they were simply two lost souls comforting one another.

In the midst of their exchange, the door to the tearoom slid open, and Xiangcui stepped in. Her presence shifted the atmosphere, an awkward note in the symphony of their dialogue.

"Chengyu," Xiangcui greeted, her eyes darting between him and the musician, who had all but ceased playing. Silence hung heavy over them. "You're here."

"Xiangcui, good to see you," he said, standing up, his heart suddenly a drumbeat of anticipation. "I want to talk about Xiuqin's house."

"Ah, yes, the house," she responded. Her eyes lit up, and he knew she was glad he didn't instantly question her presence here. "Come, let's not tarry."

With a reluctant glance at the woman with the erhu, Chengyu followed Xiangcui out of the tearoom. The musician nodded, a silent farewell that carried the weight of an unspoken promise – that their paths would cross again, under the sway of the apricot tree or amid the resonance of the erhu's strings.

How he longed to know her name.

***

"Will this be enough?" Xiangcui asked as they commissioned a delicate landscape painting from a local artist, her voice a hopeful whisper against the clamor.

"Maybe just a little too much," Chengyu replied, counting the remaining coins from Lord Hongli's purse, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. He'd always had the sneaking suspicion that a peasant would be rotten at math, but to so grossly underestimate… "We may have overestimated our means."

They laughed together, a light moment amidst the stress, but it was a laugh tinged with the anxiety of emptying pockets. With arms laden, they journeyed back, the weight of their bounty a physical echo of Chengyu's financial woes.

Piling everything in the main hall, they divvied up the work. Chengyu went to labor on the exterior, scaling the tree to tight rope walk across a branch, then onto the roof. He repaired broken shingles, replacing them with new, freshly fired slats.

Xiangcui beautified the interior, hanging paintings and arranging flowers, the latter of which she was very particular about. Chengyu swung down, landing with a thud. When he tried to open the door, she screeched and slammed it shut, refusing to allow him back inside until every minute detail was meticulously accounted for.

He sat on the stoop outside and passed a pebble between his feet, the world's most pathetic soccer game. Nearly half an hour later, she finally permitted him inside.

"Sorry," she said, demure. "I need help repairing a few broken boards."

"Alright," he sighed. There really was no choice in the matter.

Chengyu's hands were already calloused from the labor, yet he marveled at the satisfaction that came with each plank and brushstroke transforming Xiuqin's home. The market had been a bustling tapestry of voices and colors, vendors calling out their wares with the ferocity of warriors on a battlefield. There, amidst the cacophony, he and Xiangcui had spun a tale of restoration, drawing in generous donations of paint, fabrics, and wood. Each contribution was a small victory, a piece of the puzzle to mend the dilapidation.

"Lord Hongli would either commend us for our charity or chastise us for imprudence," Chengyu jested, his tone lilting with feigned misery as he exaggerated wiping a tear from his eye.

"Then let us hope for commendation," Xiangcui chuckled, shifting a heavy roll of fabric into a more comfortable position.

The sun dipped lower as they worked, its light casting long shadows through the courtyard where the apricot tree stood like a silent guardian. As evening's cool embrace settled over them, they stepped back to admire their handiwork. The walls gleamed freshly painted, the new hangings swayed gently, and the once barren rooms now breathed warmth and life.

"Tea?" Xiangcui offered, gesturing toward the courtyard. They needed no further discussion, both silently agreeing that this was a task well done and deserving of respite.

"Thank you," Chengyu sighed as they sat, the comforting aroma of steeping tea mingling with the scent of fresh paint and earth. "You've been a tremendous help."

"Xiuqin has done much for me," she said simply, pouring the amber liquid with steady hands. "It was my turn to give back."

Chengyu sipped the tea, letting the heat seep into him, chasing away the fatigue that clung to his bones. His curiosity, however, refused to be stilled by weariness. "If I may ask, Xianghui, why were you at the brothels? It seemed... incongruent with your current place beside the old apothecary. And while I know we make taels a year for our work, if you need money…"

She paused, her eyes distant, reflecting the deepening twilight. "No, nothing of the sorts. I was almost sold there, once," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "But before I was sent away, Lady Xiuqin, she saw something in me. She took me in. Fed me. Gave me a name. And with apothecary, she offered another path — a chance at freedom. But still, during my brief time there, I bore witness to the horrid conditions those women live in. Disease, mental maladies, all made worse by sabotage. I still return on occasions to ensure their well-being. I make runs when I must."

"Freedom is a precious thing," he mused, feeling the weight of her words. Chengyu recognized the resonance of kinship in their shared pursuit of liberation, whether from physical bonds or the shackles of grief.

"Indeed," she agreed, taking a slow sip of her tea. "It's fragile and hard-won. But look at this place now, through kindness, we've created a sanctuary."

A sense of peace settled over the courtyard as they watched dusk enfold the world, the apricot blossoms above them a canopy of stars yet to shine.

Chengyu traced the veins of a fallen apricot blossom with his fingertip, as if it were a map leading back to a place he could no longer visit. "When my mother passed," he said softly, breaking the silence that had draped over them like fine silk, "I had to go to this foreign place I'd never been. I was born there, but everything was unfamiliar. I thought perhaps I could find something — anything — that would make the world seem less hollow, but my search only ate what little hope I had left."

Xiangcui looked at him, her eyes holding the last light of day. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Only more questions," he admitted, a rueful smile touching the corners of his mouth. He leaned back against the gnarled trunk of the tree, its bark as wrinkled as an old sage's face, and gazed up through the branches. The leaves rustled, whispering secrets in a language only the wind understood. "And I never even got to try understanding."

"Sometimes," Xiangcui mused, picking up a brush to sweep away some dust that had settled on the stone bench, "the answers we seek are not out there but within us."

"Perhaps." Chengyu closed his eyes briefly, feeling the thrum of life around him — the busy chatter of cicadas, the soft flutter of wings, the earthy scent of growth. It was a symphony of existence that, for a fleeting moment, filled the emptiness left by his mother's passing.

He opened his eyes again to see Xiangxui quietly arranging the delicate tea set they'd brought out earlier. Porcelain clinked faintly as she moved with purposeful grace, her silhouette framed by the darkening sky. The courtyard, once neglected, now bloomed with the fruits of their labor — a testament to resilience and care.

As the night deepened, the air cooled, carrying the fresh aroma of painted walls and newly turned soil. They sat together, sipping the last of the tea, the liquid warm against their lips, a shared comfort between kindred souls. Above them, the apricot tree's leaves danced to the tune of the gentle evening breeze.

"Thank you, Chengyu," Xiangxui whispered, almost to herself, as if the words were a fragile offering to the universe.

"No, thank you," he replied, his voice barely audible above the leaves' rustling. "For sharing this...for everything. I don't know how I would've survived any of this without you."

A comfortable silence nestled between them, and they simply existed, side by side, allowing the tranquility of the refurbished courtyard to seep into their weary bones. Chengyu watched the play of shadows and light through the foliage, a mesmerizing performance of nature's untamed beauty.

His thoughts ebbed and flowed like the tides of an unseen ocean, memories of his mother mingling with the serenity of the present. Grief, he realized, was not a foe to be conquered but a companion to walk with, its presence a reminder of love that transcended time and space.

It was in this reflection that sleep found them, tender as a mother's embrace, under the watchful gaze of the flowering apricot tree.

***

The creak of the gate stirred neither Chengyu nor Xiangcui from their slumber. Hunched over, Xiuqin stepped into the courtyard, stopping short at the sight of the transformation. Her eyes widened, taking in the clean walls adorned with hanging scrolls, the polished floors, and the vibrant splashes of color where there had once been only decay.

Her hand flew to her mouth, a gasp escaping her lips as tears shimmered in her eyes. She wanted to wake them, to express her gratitude with words and embraces, but the peaceful scene before her stilled her intentions. Instead, a smile broke across her face, radiant as the dawn.

She tiptoed past the sleeping pair, their breaths rising and falling in unison beneath the tree and slipped inside her rejuvenated home. In her heart, she carried the warmth of their gift — a sanctuary restored and the promise of new beginnings.