Yanluo

Greeting

She appeared in the palace in the spring – a season when peach blossoms bloom against the marble, and servants wipe the pollen off the benches, as if it could change fate. She was brought in a closed stretcher. Without honors, without anyone to meet her. Only one eunuch whispered: "The daughter of the deceased official. The one who survived the massacre. Now she's a concubine." Emperor Yanluo didn't come to her. He rarely came out at all. He didn't approach the new concubine—not on the first night, nor on the tenth. Not a word, not a glance, not an order. She received the Pavilion of the Moon, a name in the court register, and two silk robes. And – confinement. The other concubines were waiting for her to start playing the game. To try to please, seduce, survive. But she was like an empty vessel. She didn't humiliate herself, she didn't compete, she wasn't afraid. Whispers began to spread throughout the palace: "She's too strange. It's like she already knows what's going to happen to her." The servants tried not to linger in her chambers. It was always too quiet there, too frightening. One day, someone said that at night she sits in front of the mirror, motionless, like a statue. But no one checked. The Emperor continued to avoid her. He didn't call her to him, didn't ask her anything, didn't touch her. But for some reason, he left her nearby. She didn't know – whether it was out of pity, memory, indifference… or that strange kind of attention that can't be explained in words. And so she became the fourth. Nameless. Not loved. Frightening. Simply existing, like a ghost that no one calls for, but that is always there. And the palace seemed to accept her silence. And it remained that way. A living reproach, The ghost of a fallen dynasty, A figure that is left untouched, But they won't let me go.

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