My happiness in the mansion had lasted for more than two years. Yet, as I had always feared, life never remains a straight road, it tilts upward for a while, then plunges down steeply.
Still, my bonds with the Monk, Lianyu, and Yichen, for now, had only deepened.
That afternoon, the air was heavy with the sweet bitterness of tea. Yichen poured carefully into porcelain cups, steam curling upward, while the Monk sat cross-legged with me for another language lesson.
Lianyu broke the silence first. "You know," she said, her voice as smooth as silk but lined with weariness, "we've spent all this time teaching Meilina and debating China's affairs, yet we know so little of each other's pasts. A year together, and we are still strangers in many ways. Should we not share?"
Her words struck me. I had always wondered what they were like in their past.
"I want to know your story, Ariya," I said.
The Monk's lips curved into a small, sorrowful smile. "If I speak, you must as well." He folded his hands. "Very well. I was raised in Bharat, in a strict Hindu household where obedience was worship, and individuality was a sin."
As he spoke, his low voice seemed to thrum with the ache of memory. I imagined the flicker of oil lamps against clay walls, the stern faces of parents who allowed no freedom.
"My days were spent reciting the Ramayana. I was not allowed friends, not allowed questions. Yet… I had one companion—Revata, a Buddhist boy. His family was nothing like mine. No jeweled ornaments, no proud banquets. They were simple, kind. Compassionate."
A faint smile crossed his face, then vanished. "I studied Buddhism in secret. When my parents discovered it, my father beat us both until my back bled. That night, I fled."
The room stilled. Even the crackle of the brazier seemed to fade.
"Revata escaped with me," Ariya went on, voice tightening. "His parents sheltered me. But I could not live as a burden forever. So when monks from China came to study, I fought for a place among them. That was twenty-five years ago. I have not touched the soil of my homeland since."
His words carried the weight of distance, of decades without home. I shivered. Would I too be stranded in China for the rest of my life, with only fading memories of Bharat?
"And your family?" Lianyu asked gently.
The Monk's eyes shone with grief. "My mother bore another child, a sister. Ambika. She grew up behind the same suffocating walls. I promised myself I would free her one day, but… she has never known me. And I—" his voice broke— "I will never know her."
Tears streaked down his weathered face. For the first time, the mysterious man before me looked as fragile as glass.
I reached out instinctively, but Lianyu spoke first. "You are not alone."
The Monk gave her a grateful bow of his head.
For a moment, silence wrapped around us like a heavy blanket. Then Lianyu lifted her chin. "Perhaps it is my turn."
I leaned back, bracing myself, for I knew her story would be no lighter.
"I was born a concubine's daughter," she began, her tone steady though her hands trembled. "My father was a wealthy merchant, but to him I was nothing. His wife despised me—every glance a blade. And—My own mother, who should've taken care of me, cared more for her ambitions than her child."
The air seemed colder. I could almost smell the musty halls of her childhood home, hear the sharp slap of a palm against her cheek.
"They taught me to sing, to dance, to play chess—not for joy, but to lure suitors. Each mistake earned punishment. Each success earned nothing. I was unwanted by all."
Her voice faltered, and she coughed, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. Still, she pressed on.
"But it would be wrong to say everything was sad back then. One night, a knock came at my window. A parrot, its wings broken, its feathers the color of jade. I tended to it in secret, wrapping its wounds with cloth. Though his wings never healed, my love for him grew. He became my only companion. I named him Yuniao."
Her eyes softened with the memory, and for a brief moment, I glimpsed the girl she must have been—lonely, but with a spark of defiance.
"When marriage proposals came, I deliberately failed them. I danced flawlessly in practice, yet faltered before suitors. I would not leave my parrot. But then my current husband agreed to marry me. I tried to flee that night, bird in hand. I was caught, locked away.
At least he let me keep Yuniao. A gilded cage within another cage."
Her voice dropped lower, heavy with sorrow. "I wanted children. Miscarriage after miscarriage, hope slipping away until the doctor declared me barren. Worthless. My husband turned cold. His concubines bloomed around him, while I withered."
A tear slid down her cheek. "When Yuniao died, it was as though the last light in my world vanished."
I clasped her hand. Her skin was warm, trembling faintly under mine. "Lianyu…"
She gave out a rough cough, surprising the three of us all of a sudden.
She straightened, pulling herself together with the steel of someone who refused to be pitied. "Do not look at me with sorrow. I live in comfort compared to the poor. I am content enough now—with the three of you. That is family enough."
Her words pierced me. She had endured neglect, abuse, the loss of child and companion, yet still she stood tall. I felt a sharp pang—not pity, but envy.
For all her pain, she was still stronger than me.
I looked between her and the Monk. Ariya, bound by faith and regret. Lianyu, scarred yet unbroken. Their tragedies mirrored my own. Parents who crushed rather than cared. Homes that became prisons.
It was strange, almost miraculous, how our broken pieces fit together.
The fire crackled softly, wrapping us in its warmth.
For the first time in years, I felt it too, that fragile, precious thing called belonging.
And as I leaned back, my heart heavy yet light, I realized: this night of confessions had made us something more than companions.
It had made us a family.