A Primavera na Palma da Mão

Autumn in the Fifteenth Year of the Taikang era.

A pinkish white and pure white hung together, two thin gauze curtains, as fine as cicada wings, spilling from the canopy of the bed. A faint blue thread of smoke drifted from the top of a gilt incense burner; candlelight wavered and made the curtained chamber even more dreamlike.
A man gripped her slender waist tightly, his force urgent, his voice low and detached.

“Where are you running, hmm? Did you see a ghost?”

The young lady covered her face with bare hands, crying in broken gasps.

“No—no more...”

“Miss?”

“Miss?”

A clear, airy voice seemed to answer from somewhere within her own ears.

Outside, willow branches swayed in the wind and rustled softly. In the room, the curtains stirred; a maid waited by the bed, calling urgently.

Shen Yansi woke suddenly from a sleep-drenched shock.
Her brow was damp with sweat, her breath burning and uneven, her dark hair loose around her neck and shoulders. Her bright eyes, filled as though with water, shone with alarm, and her lips trembled of their own accord. Her slender fingers clenched the quilt hard in the blankets. She looked terrified, yet a warm, suspicious flush touched her face, and her skin was fever-hot.

Qinglian dabbed at her forehead with a folded handkerchief and, in haste, spoke up.

“Miss, did you have another nightmare?”

Hearing the whisper once more, Yansi fully emerged from her confusion.
Again... only a dream.
She had had this dream for some time now, each time waking in fright.
In