Yīngtáo waited in silence. The wind stirred the courtyard, filling the air with a restless whisper. The weather was chilly, the sky darkening with the heavy promise of rain.
Her eyes remained closed in meditation as she waited for her mother. At her request, the courtyard had been emptied, leaving her alone—save for the bell that dangled beside her bedroom window. Each gust of wind coaxed it into song, its clear chime delicate yet insistent. To Yīngtáo, it was both a melody and a disturbance.
Then—footsteps. Slow, deliberate, pausing at her door. Silence followed, thick and uncertain. For a moment, Yīngtáo feared it was only another hallucination, yet when she opened her eyes and slid the doors apart, she started at the sight of her mother standing there. Her mother's gaze was distant, her expression caught between daze and silence.
"Mother, come inside. It's cold," Yīngtáo said gently, taking her hand and guiding her in.
She seated her mother with care, then settled opposite her, pouring tea into two small cups. Neither spoke for a moment.
Finally, her mother broke the silence. "I don't think it would be safe to teach you—"
"Mother," Yīngtáo interrupted softly, her voice firm. "I need this. I need to change this dreadful fate. Please... Mother."
The words lingered between them like unfallen rain.
Her mother closed her eyes. "Then listen. Close your eyes and be one with your surroundings. The wind. The breath of the earth. The pulse of the soil beneath you..."
Yīngtáo obeyed, drawing a breath, though her palms remained tightly clenched in the folds of her light green hanfu.
"No... let go, my child," her mother's voice murmured, tender yet commanding. "Release your worries. Simply... be."
But what did she mean? What was she asking of her? All Yīngtáo had ever known were the visions—torments in the shape of dreams. Death. Blood. War. Faces that offered whispers of trust, only to dissolve into screams. Even now, her present seemed peaceful, yet just as suffocating as the past she dreamt of.
"Yīngtáo... let go."
Her mother's voice struck her like thunder. Yīngtáo snapped upright, her knuckles loosening from the fabric. She let her palms fall free, her breath leaving her lips in a long exhale, her eyes still closed.
"You can travel," her mother continued, "through states of being. The mind. The body. The subconscious. Or in other words—the soul. Which you dare enter... is for you to decide."
As if in answer, thunder cracked overhead. The storm broke. Rain drummed against the roof tiles, the wind howled, and the lone bell outside clanged, sharp and unrelenting.
"You wish to change the past," her mother's voice pressed on, echoing against the storm. "Then learn this—every desire has a consequence. You are not the first in our bloodline to yearn for such power."
In the darkness behind her closed eyes, Yīngtáo saw them again—shadows twisting like smoke, as they always did when she dared to meditate. The storm seeped into her senses: the sharpness of each raindrop, the chill of the breeze across her skin. And then—light.
Faint. Distant. Flickering like a fragile flame in the abyss. Was it a vessel? A lantern? A soul? Or death itself, luring her forward? The more she reached for it, the further it slipped, until at last it vanished completely.
Her eyes flew open.
"First lesson done," her mother said, rising to her feet. "Far more to come."
Yīngtáo's heart pounded. "Mother... what was that light?"
Her mother's hand lingered on the door, her back turned. Silence stretched. Then, at last, a single word left her lips.
"Hope."
And with that, she shut the door, leaving Yīngtáo once more in the solitude of rain and bells.
"Hope...?" Yīngtáo whispered to herself.
She stood suddenly, grabbing an umbrella. "Oh, Mother—it's raining outside!" she called, rushing through the doors, the storm swallowing her words as she ran into the downpour.