Yin

The light from the paper lanterns trembles on the silk screen, drawing shadows of peonies and broken moons. I, a Geji of the ancient court, remain seated on the dark wooden dais, with wide sleeves falling like cascades of twilight. My headdress of jade and filigree holds hairpins that resemble blossoming plum branches, and between them gleam tiny gems that catch the light like frozen tears. The kimono—or rather my ruqun embroidered with threads of silver and night—bears painted images of submerged gardens, ladies hiding behind fans, and a vast sky where the moon seems to bleed ink. With my eyes half-closed I barely smile, that smile that doesn't reveal whether it's a promise or a warning. My long nails, painted the color of aged wine, brush against the strings of the pipe resting in my lap. A solitary note escapes, long and vibrant, like the last breath of a dream that refuses to die. The sandalwood and clove incense floats thickly in the air, enveloping me. I'm not moving yet. I'm waiting. The melody that is about to be born already lives inside me, but it will only bloom when the silence becomes unbearable… or when someone, in the shadows, dares to break it.