Late May, the fourth year of Yuanyou.After Tianshui Alley, time seemed to slow down. Not truly slow, but the kind of slowness that comes before a storm—in New York, they called it "the calm before the storm." I had watched countless historical documentaries, but only when standing in the whirlpool of Yuanyou factional strife did I realize how this slowness felt like a frozen screen. Everyone held their breath, waiting for something, yet nothing happened. Clouds hung low, wind did not blow, leaves did not move. Everyone waited, yet nothing came.
Zhao Xu still went to the Imperial City Guard every day, flipped through dossiers, and conducted interrogations as usual. But he no longer slipped out of the palace at midnight, nor ran hand in hand with me to the Imperial Garden. He sat in his study at the Guard, staying there from dawn till dusk. He read the same dossiers over and over, checked the entry logs again and again, and the letter brought back from Willow Alley lay under his ink stone, glanced at daily.
When the young eunuch came for the food box, he said His Majesty had grown thin lately—not in the face, but in the shoulders."Before, his crimson robes sat straight across his shoulders. Now they slope a little."
I ladled the porridge into the lacquered box and sprinkled an extra handful of osmanthus."Tell him he must eat, no matter how busy."
The eunuch ran off. Half an hour later, the box returned, empty. One grain of rice stuck to the bowl, with a note beside it:"Ate. Not thin. Growing taller."The writing was steady, and the final stroke of the character "tall" curved upward. I stared for a long time, then tucked the note under my pillow.The thirteen-year-old emperor was still growing. In all those costume dramas I watched as a kid, male leads his age had already taken full power. But Zhao Xu's "growth mode" reminded me of The Sims—except I, the player, had to cook porridge and collect notes myself, waiting for him to max out his skills little by little.
On the twenty-third day of the fifth month, the Empress Dowager suddenly summoned me. Not through a regular attendant, but by a personal maid from her chamber.She said the Empress Dowager wanted pumpkin pie.I froze. Pumpkin pie was something I had made last autumn; the Empress Dowager had said to make it "when there's pumpkin." But it was May now. Last year's pumpkins were long gone, and this year's were not yet ripe.
"There are no pumpkins," I said.
The maid smiled. "Her Highness said if there's no pumpkin, make something else. She said whatever you make, she will eat."
I stood before the stove, thinking for a long time. What to make? Egg fried rice? The Empress Dowager disliked greasy food. Osmanthus porridge? She said it was too sweet. Ice cheese? Her stomach was weak; she could not eat cold things.In the end, I made osmanthus cake. Not the small, bite-sized kind, but large round ones, covered in golden osmanthus. When steamed, they glowed like the autumn moon. I drizzled honey to form the character An—Peace—the same character as on the jade pendant, the same as on the silver. Modern people write on birthday cakes; this was my "time-travel version of a heartfelt treat." I just hoped I wouldn't give myself away.
I carried the plate toward the side hall behind Funing Hall.The head attendant waited at the door. When she saw the character An on the cake, she said nothing and stepped aside.
The Empress Dowager sat on the couch, memorials spread before her, unread. She wore informal robes, her hair neatly arranged, still fastened with the pale blue jade hairpin. She looked a little older than last year, a few more white strands at her temples, but her gaze remained as deep as ever.
"This is what you made?"
"Yes. Osmanthus cake. There was no pumpkin, so I made this."
She picked up a piece and took a small bite, chewing slowly for a long time. She swallowed, then took another.
"Too sweet."
"I used less honey. Osmanthus is naturally fragrant, not like—" I almost said "not like modern artificial sweetener" and bit my tongue hard, "—not like other things that taste overly sweet."
The Empress Dowager glanced at me. That look lasted a long time, just as it had when she first asked, "You are Shen Heng?" But this time, there was something more—not scrutiny, but something softer. Like approval, or quiet acceptance. Acceptance that a cook from nowhere, with no clear origin, could stay under her watch.
"Did you send some to His Majesty?"
"I did. He said it was just right."
She lifted her teacup, not looking at me.
"How has he been lately?"
"His Majesty has been… very busy. Many cases at the Imperial City Guard, and many lessons from the Grand Tutor. But he finishes all his meals. He drinks all his porridge."
"And writes notes?"
I stiffened.The Empress Dowager did not look up, her fingers circling the rim of the cup.
"He has always been like this. He cannot say what he feels, so he writes it down." She paused. "When the late Emperor was alive, he wrote notes to him. After the late Emperor passed, he writes to you."
Her voice was calm, as if speaking of something long past. I stood below, unsure what to say.She knew everything. Had known from the very first day. She just never spoke.
"Your Highness—"
"I do not blame you." She set down the cup and looked at me. "As long as he is happy. If he is happy, he eats more. If he eats more, he grows. When he grows… he can do what he wishes."
She picked up the osmanthus cake and finished the rest. Then she pulled a crumpled note from her sleeve and laid it on the table. It was old, edges frayed, folds nearly torn. On it was a line of crooked writing, like a child just learning to walk:
"Empress Dowager, I have eaten well. Have you?"
I stared. Modern parents keep their children's doodles; this note was Zhao Xu's childhood growth diary. The Empress Dowager had kept it for seven years, waiting for him to grow from a child into an emperor, waiting for him to learn to curve the last stroke of "tall."As someone who knew how history ended, I felt a sharp ache for her—she had waited far longer than I ever would.
"This was—"
"Written when His Majesty was six," she said, folding it back into her sleeve. "The late Emperor was gravely ill. He dared not come to greet me in person, so he wrote this and had it sent." She paused. "I kept it. For seven years."
She stood and walked to the window. Pomegranate flowers bloomed bright red outside, swaying gently in the wind.
"You may go back. Tomorrow, make osmanthus cake again. Less sugar."
"Yes, Your Highness."
I backed out. At the door, I glanced back. The Empress Dowager stood by the window, clutching the note, not turning around.
After leaving the side hall, I walked for a long time.Past corridors, palace paths, the Imperial Garden. The osmanthus tree had not yet bloomed, its leaves green and soft in the wind.When Zhao Xu was six, he wrote: Empress Dowager, I have eaten well. Have you? She kept it for seven years.She knew everything. Knew he waited for me in the garden, knew he wrote me notes, knew he snuck out at midnight to investigate. She knew it all, yet said nothing. She just sat in her hall, waiting for him to grow up.
That night, Zhao Xu came to find me in the Imperial Garden.He sat under the osmanthus tree, staring up at the bare branches.
"I heard the Empress Dowager summoned you today."
"Mm."
"What did she say?"
"That the osmanthus cake was too sweet. To use less sugar."
He laughed. "She always says that."
"She said something else."
"What?"
"She told me you wrote her a note when you were six."
He froze. The smile slowly faded.
"Do you remember what it said?" I asked.
He did not answer. He looked down at his hands.
"I forgot," he said. But his hands trembled—faintly, almost invisible if you did not look closely.
"She kept it. For seven years."
He still did not speak. After a long while, he finally said:
"Father was very ill then, and hadn't attended court for a long time. I wanted to see him, but dared not. The Empress Dowager wouldn't let me either. I wrote a note and had it sent." He paused. "She never replied. I thought she never saw it."
"She did. She kept it."
He lifted his head and looked at me. Moonlight fell on his face, his eyes bright, glistening.
"Aheng."
"Mm."
"Have I not written her a note in a long time?"
"Mm. A very long time."
He stood up and brushed dust from his robes.
"Tomorrow, I will write her one."
He turned to leave. After a few steps, he looked back.
"Aheng."
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For telling me."
He smiled, then turned and ran. The hem of his robe tapped against the stone, just like when he was nine.
That night, I wrote on a slip of paper:The Empress Dowager kept his note for seven years. She said as long as he is happy. She said if he is happy, he eats more. If he eats more, he grows. When he grows, he can do what he wishes. Tomorrow, he will write her a note. What will it say? Probably: Empress Dowager, I have eaten well. You eat well too.
After writing, I tucked the note under my pillow, with the old ones, the jade, the wheat stalk, and the dried golden osmanthus petal.Four years. Not four years of the Song Dynasty, but four years since I crossed from modern times.He had grown from nine to thirteen. From too short to reach the osmanthus, to a head taller than me. From messy scribbles, to presiding over interrogations at the Imperial City Guard. From "I'll take care of you" to "I will wait."Time-travel dramas always talk about "changing history," but all I could do was collect these little notes, watching him level up like a game character.Yet he would still write notes to the Empress Dowager. And she would still keep them. For seven years. For fourteen. For a lifetime.
The moon outside was round and bright.The Empress Dowager stood by the window, clutching that old note. Written when he was six, crooked as a toddler's step. She had kept it seven years. She would keep it longer.When he turned twenty. Thirty. Grew old. She would take out those notes, reading them one by one.From crooked strokes to steady characters.From Empress Dowager, I have eaten well to Empress Dowager, I still eat well.From too short to pluck osmanthus, to standing tall in court, before her, saying: I have grown up.She had waited for that day for a very long time.
Emperor Zhezong waited for the factional tide to turn.The Empress Dowager waited for her grandson to grow.I waited for the day I could return home.
Whose wait was longer? I did not know.But I knew those notes would be kept. Until the very last day they could.
End of Chapter 30