House of Spring

The doors of the Restrum of Spring were vermilion.

The night was not yet deep, and the lanterns swayed unsteadily in the wind. Their light struck the heavy door panels, flickering on and off, as if something alive were gasping for breath right behind the wood.

Liu Zhaomian stood below the stone steps, motionless.

Head bowed, she could see only her own hand. The sharp edge of a copper coin dug deep into her palm, leaving a shallow, angry red mark. She did not lift her eyes to look at that door, but it lingered persistently at the edge of her peripheral vision—vermilion, silent, waiting.

She wondered: once a person stepped inside, could they ever come back out?

Three months ago, the locust tree of the Liu family was still there.

It grew in the eastern corner of the courtyard. In the summer, its leaves were so thick they shaded a vast expanse of cool shadow. Father liked to move his wooden chair beneath it to balance the ledgers. The click of his abacus beads was always steady and unhurried—very much like the man himself. Whenever Zhaomian happened to skip past, Father wouldn’t even lift his head, only saying casually, “Zhaomian, don’t run too far.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Just like that. She would run out, and she would run back; the courtyard remained, the locust tree remained, and the rhythmic sound of the abacus remained. Back then, she believed these things would endure forever—like the roots of the locust tree buried deep in the soil, so firmly anchored that nothing could ever tear them away.

Later, she realized that back then, she was simply too young to understand what it meant to “assume.”

When Manager Wang arrived for the first time, Zhaomian was sitting under the veranda peeling beans.

The courtyard door was pushed open abruptly, a harsh gust of wind rushed in, and the very air in the yard suddenly changed. She looked up and saw a man framed within the doorway. He didn’t step inside the house; he just stood there with his hands crossed behind his back, his cold, calculating eyes sweeping across the yard and lingering on Father, as if taking inventory of goods.

“Master Liu, it has been a long time.” He paused briefly. “It is time to settle the accounts.”

Father stood up. Zhaomian couldn’t see his expression clearly. She lowered her head and continued peeling her beans, watching them roll into the porcelain bowl—one, by one, by one.

She could hear her own heartbeat, accelerating slightly in the silence.

The deed was signed on a certain twilight.

Zhaomian was in the inner room, separated by a wooden door. She could hear the muffled murmurs of voices outside. She couldn’t make out the words; she heard only the rustle of paper, followed by silence. A long, suffocating silence.

Prying quietly through the narrow crack of the door, she saw only Father’s hand. He pressed his thumb into a red ink pad and stamped it down; the crimson ink bled slowly into the paper texture, like a drop of ink falling into clear water—impossible to ever retrieve.

Father’s voice was strained and incredibly low. “I... I will find another way.”

Manager Wang gave no answer, offering only a soft, mocking chuckle.

Zhaomian pulled away from the crack and sat back down. She did not know what was written on that piece of paper, but that blotch of crimson remained stained in her eyes, refusing to fade.

Zhaomian did not sleep well that night. Before dawn, she heard frantic shouting in the courtyard.

She ran out to find the servants in utter chaos. The storehouse doors stood wide open, exposing bundles upon bundles of damaged cloth—some already rotting, a foul stench billowing out from the threshold. The ledgers had been thrown to the ground by someone, their pages scattered all over the dirt.

Father stood in the center of the yard, completely motionless, speechless.

Everyone around him was screaming and running in panic, but he stood entirely alone—looking like a hollowed-out wooden post.

Suddenly, Zhaomian dared not approach him.

In her heart, she counted seven days.

Every morning upon waking, she would draw a tally mark in her mind, blindly believing that on some day, Father would get better. On the morning of the seventh day, she pushed open his bedroom door and saw him lying motionless on the bed-couch.

The light from the oil lamp was faint and yellow, casting shadows that made his face look even thinner and frailer than usual. He coughed violently, his fingers clutching the edge of the blanket, his knuckles trembling slightly. Zhaomian sat by the bedside. He turned his face toward her, stared at her blankly for a long moment, and whispered:

“Don’t... don’t let her know too much...”

He spoke of “her,” yet his hollow eyes were fixed on her.

Zhaomian did not move, nor did she speak. She didn’t know if Father even realized she was there. The lamplight flickered once; he closed his eyes, and his fingers ceased to tremble.

She placed her hand over the back of his—very gently, terrified of pressing too hard and hurting him.

Mother did not let her enter that room again, but Zhaomian saw it from behind the door anyway.

That gold hairpin was an heirloom left by Grandmother. Mother would occasionally take it out to look at it—she never wore it, only looked. That day, she placed it on the table and pushed it toward the man sitting opposite her. What she received in return was a small, meager pouch of broken silver.

Mother’s hands were shaking violently, but she did not cry.

“We just need to survive this for now,” she said. Her voice was flat and devoid of emotion, as if she were speaking of something entirely unrelated to herself.

Zhaomian took those words into her heart, but knew not where to store them. She wanted to ask, Survive until when? But she didn’t. There are questions adults do not answer simply because they do not know the answers themselves.

Time passed both very fast and agonizingly slow.

One night, unable to sleep, Zhaomian went quietly to find Mother. Mother sat beneath the lamp sewing a garment, her head bowed as the needle and thread pierced in and out. Zhaomian walked over, but just as she was about to speak, she suddenly noticed a streak of white at Mother’s temple.

Just one streak, glaringly bright under the lamplight.

She swallowed her words, stood there for a moment, and silently retreated back to her own bed, staring blindly into the darkness until dawn.

When the servant came to change her clothes, Zhaomian understood everything.

The dress was brand new, its fabric far superior to her usual attire, its color vibrant. Yet the sleeves were too long and the collar too wide; it hung hollowly upon her frail body, as though tailored for someone else entirely. The servant adjusted her collar, whispering in a low, somber voice:

“Someone is coming to look at you tomorrow.”

Zhaomian did not ask who was coming, or what they were looking at. She just looked down at her sleeves, which extended past her fingers.

That night, she overheard Mother talking to Manager Wang in the courtyard. She didn’t draw near, remaining hidden behind a veranda pillar at a distance.

“The Restrum of Spring is willing to take her,” Manager Wang’s voice was neither high nor low. “Your daughter... is well worth the price.”

Hearing this, Zhaomian did not flinch or move.

The wind rustled the leaves of the locust tree, making a dry, scratching sound. She looked down to find her fingers still clutching that copper coin—given to her casually by Father before his illness. For some reason, she had kept it all this time, never spending it. Held tightly for so long, its edges had lost half their luster.

Am I... being sold?

She did not say the thought aloud. It merely revolved once in her mind before sinking heavily, like a pebble dropped into deep water; the surface closed up seamlessly, leaving nothing behind.

She gripped the copper coin tighter, turned, and went back inside her room.

The next day, she followed the escorts and walked out of the Liu family gates.

Mother stood at the entrance, making no move to follow. After a few steps, Zhaomian turned her head. She saw Mother pressing a hand tightly against her chest, her lips pursed, her eyes incredibly bright—but she did not cry.

Zhaomian did not cry either.

She didn’t know what she was thinking at that moment, or perhaps, she thought of nothing at all. At certain moments, a person becomes entirely hollowed out; nothing can be poured in, and nothing can flow out.

And so, she walked until she reached the gates of the Restrum of Spring.

The lanterns were still swaying.

The vermilion door, the flickering, unstable light.

Zhaomian stood before the threshold, head bowed, the copper coin pressing into her palm until the red mark became even deeper than before. She stood there for a very long time, long enough for the wind to chill the hem of her dress.

Then, she lifted her foot and stepped across.

The opulent lights inside swallowed her shadow. The heavy doors closed behind her with a soft, final thud.

The locust tree outside, the clicking of the abacus, the single streak of white hair at Mother’s temple—all of it was left behind, on the other side of that door.