Inside Xue Zhao's room, the surroundings were so quiet it was as if time itself had come to a halt.
The room was not large, but it was arranged with exquisite elegance. A screen woven from green bamboo divided the inner and outer portions; on the screen were carved delicate patterns of plum, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum, lending a serene and refined air.
Several ink landscape paintings hung on the wall, their mountains shrouded in drifting clouds and mist, lakes tranquil and still, as though telling of a life far removed from worldly clamor.
At the center of the room stood a sandalwood writing desk, upon which lay several ancient books, as if waiting for their owner to resume her reading.
Xue Zhao lay quietly on the bed. A simple white gauze lantern hung at the headboard, its gentle light spilling over her face, making her features appear all the more pure and ethereal.
