"Will I die just like this?" I questioned in my mind while taking a deep, ragged breath. I remember it was snowing that day, the world around me a serene blanket of white. But the blood—it was everywhere, painting the snow in crimson. I clutched my stomach, my fingers desperately trying to stem the flow from the gaping wound. My vision blurred, and my thoughts drifted into a fog of pain and regret.
I recalled a conversation with my father before his death. I had told him I wanted to be a writer, and he had vehemently disagreed with my dream, dismissing it as foolishness.
As the slow, excruciating pain seeped through my body, I made a feeble attempt to pull the knife from my stomach. I knew it was the dumbest idea, but I was beyond rational thought. My strength was ebbing away, and I felt my grip on reality slipping. It was time to let go, to end the suffering. And with that final, agonizing effort, everything went dark.
"Nài'er!? Nài'er!?" Just as I finally thought I could be free, I heard someone calling. The voice was unfamiliar, pulling me back from the brink. With a dim light in my eyes, I opened them to find myself surrounded by a man and a woman, both appearing to be in their 40s. Before I could even gather my thoughts, the man started screaming, "A disappointment... a total disappointment, that's what she is! Trying to Kill herself?"
I looked at the woman as she gazed at him with a calm, composed expression. "Don't worry, my lord. She will slowly come to her senses," the lady said, smiling at me quietly. Her smile was dim, almost forced, and beneath it, I could sense her unhappiness.
"Let's go for now, my lord," she said, gently sliding my hair behind my ears. With that, she left with him, leaving me to ponder the strange encounter.
I tried to get up, and just as I sat, I took in my surroundings. Everything was calm, with a small waterfall visible from the window behind the room, its gentle sound like a soothing lullaby. The bamboo walls, standing tall and sturdy, covered half the room, lending it an air of rustic charm. The large window framed a picturesque view of the town, bathed in the golden hues of sunset. It was evident that it had rained heavily just before I woke up; the ground outside glistened with the remnants of the downpour.
The sky was a canvas of grey clouds, still lingering like an uninvited guest, allowing only slivers of light to break through. The atmosphere felt like a paused moment in a painting, tranquil yet heavy with the promise of more rain.
As I looked down at my clothes, I noticed their simple fabric and modest design. It was clear that the family wasn't wealthy; their means were humble, yet there was an undeniable sense of dignity in their simplicity. The room, though unadorned, was clean and orderly, a quiet testament to their care and resilience. It felt human and lived-in, a stark contrast to the sterile, opulent spaces I had known before.
As I treaded uncertainly through this unfamiliar world, the weight of my past finally lifted from my shoulders. Each step felt like liberation, a newfound freedom from the shackles of my previous life.
Amidst the quiet of the room, my gaze fell upon a cluster of papers strewn across the table. Intrigued, I reached out and gingerly picked them up, their edges crisp against my fingertips. With hesitant curiosity, I began to decipher the words inscribed upon them, eager to unlock the secrets they held within.
'Thoughts on a Quiet Night
Stars hang in the quiet night,
A gentle breeze strums the willow strings.
The moon's reflection fades on the pond,
My heart follows dreams to distant places.'
I slowly looked at the mirror in front of me, As I gazed at the unfamiliar girl before me, a sudden realization struck—her name eluded me. Fingers trembling with curiosity, I turned the paper over, half-expecting a revelation. And there it was, written delicately in ink: "Xuělian Yǔnài." I whispered the name softly, savoring its gentle melody. "Yǔnài... It's a good name," I mused, a sense of connection blossoming within me. The face wasn't mine, but something about it felt eery.
**雪莲雨乃**
白雪飘飘映清莲，
幽雅雨声洒心田。
寒风拂面花更俏，
静夜梦中思故园。
---
*Translation:*
*Snow Lotus Graceful Rain*
Snow drifts gently, reflecting the pure lotus,
Elegant rain whispers, touching the heart's fields.
Cold winds caress, making flowers more charming,
In the quiet night, I dream of my old home.''
Setting the paper down gently, I traced the lines of text with my finger, feeling a kinship with this mysterious Xuělian Yǔnài. Her words hinted at a desire to write, perhaps even to craft poetry. But then, a troubling thought intruded—had she considered ending her own life? "Killing herself?" I murmured, perplexed by the notion.
Questions swirled in my mind as I settled onto the edge of the bed. Who were the people I had encountered? And what connection did they have to Xuělian Yǔnài?
"Nai'er, time for food." The woman who had been by my side during my unconsciousness entered the room, a tray in her hands. I glanced at her as she settled beside me, setting the tray aside. "Na'er," she began, her voice gentle yet laced with concern, "Would you not listen to your father?"
Her words hung heavy in the air, stirring a mixture of emotions within me. I grappled with a sense of detachment as if the memories and feelings associated with Yunai belonged to a different person entirely.
"Mother," the word felt foreign on my tongue as I addressed her, "What does father want?" I inquired, attempting to navigate the delicate balance of our conversation.
Her response was a sigh, laden with a weight I couldn't fully comprehend. "Your father wishes for you to attend the bride selection ceremony," she explained, her words sending a shiver down my spine.
I seemed to remember something, 'Which family/' I asked.
Her eyes glanced at me, 'It's the Shanguan family.' she replied
The mention of the Shanguan family struck me like a bolt of lightning, confirming my suspicions. "Mother, I will consider it," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
As she left the room, I held her in my arms, silently urging her to seek solace outside. Alone once more, I sank onto the bed, clutching the blanket tightly against the flood of emotions threatening to engulf me. And in that moment, a startling realization washed over me—I had stepped into the pages of my novel.
The mother, devastated, returned to her room and found her husband lurking inside. Summoning her courage, she approached him. "What happened?" he asked, his voice tense. She nodded sorrowfully, unable to mask her despair. The father's face darkened with disappointment upon hearing the news.
The sun had finally set, but a faint glow still lingered in the sky. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my body present but my mind adrift. I knew I was the one who had written this story, yet everything seemed to be aligning with an eerie precision. A sudden realization struck me as I contemplated the rain, the sunset, and the strange familiarity of it all. I bolted to the window, surveying the town below. The main market was visible, bustling with activity.
I glanced at the sky, the setting perfect for the events I had penned. "3...2..." I counted down, a sense of dread creeping over me. What if things didn't align perfectly? Maybe I wasn't inside my novel after all. Perhaps I had been reincarnated with memories of a past life. "1."
"How dare you!" My father stormed into the room, his rage palpable. My eyes fixed on him, and an unheard echo reverberated through my mind: "Report, the young master of the Shanguan family has been found dead."
The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning. Everything was unfolding just as I had written, and I was powerless to change the course of the story I had created.
YOU ARE READING
Through: Trials And Triumph
Historical FictionIn a twist of fate, a young girl who meets a tragic end finds herself transported into the very novel she wrote-but not as the protagonist. As she navigates her creation, she soon realizes the perilous events that are about to unfold. With the intim...
