Xiao Shengrui couldn’t quite remember when he’d first seen Lin Shuying.
He’d been too young. He only recalled that his mother would take him to the Consort’s palace for tea, and there was always a little tag-along by the Consort’s side—chubby, with two little buns on her head, either clutching a pastry or a flower in her hand, running wild through the rooms.
Fifth Brother would run after her. When those two “little menaces” got together, they could practically dismantle the Consort’s side hall.
Once, Crown Prince Brother had met him on the palace path, taken his hand, and said: “Seventh Brother, don’t play with them. Those two—too wild.”
He’d nodded and obediently gone with the Crown Prince.
But honestly, he’d wanted to play with them.
Later, as he grew older, he stopped talking much. His mother praised his composure; his father said he was like a little grown-up. Only he knew—it wasn’t composure; he just didn’t know what to say to people. Everyone in the palace either feared him, flattered him, or wanted something from him. It was dull.
Lin Shuying was different.
She didn’t seem to be afraid of anyone.
When she was ten, she’d grabbed Fifth Brother and jumped into Taiye Lake at the Consort’s birthday banquet, nearly drowning herself, then come up clutching a handful of waterweed and saying, “All the splendor of this world is but an illusion.” Everyone believed her—everyone except him.
Not because he was clever, but because he’d seen her—just before she fell, she’d pushed Fifth Brother up.
Someone who truly wanted to “see through worldly vanities” wouldn’t protect someone else at a moment like that.
He’d picked up that lotus seed by the lake and tucked it into his sleeve. For some reason, he told no one.
Later, she went to Daxiangguo Temple for “quiet cultivation.” He’d sent someone to deliver a few agricultural books, saying it was on his mother’s orders. His mother had indeed mentioned it—but he’d chosen the books himself.
Later still, she moved to an estate outside the city. His mother sent him to deliver a housewarming gift, and he went. The estate wasn’t large, but it was neat and tidy. She’d taken him around the greenhouse, pointed at the seedlings, and said: “These are Honey Treasure watermelons—from the seeds Your Highness gave me. Ninety percent germination rate—better than expected.”
When she said these things, her eyes were very bright.
He found he liked watching her talk about these things.
She didn’t exchange pleasantries, didn’t beat around the bush, didn’t flatter, didn’t probe.
She just talked about melons.
Later, he started visiting often.
Sometimes he brought seeds, sometimes agricultural books, sometimes nothing at all—he’d just sit in the greenhouse.
She’d tend to her work; he’d read his books.
Occasionally they’d look up and catch each other’s eyes. Neither looked away—they’d just watch each other for a moment, then go back to their own tasks.
Once, she suddenly asked: “Your Highness, why do you keep coming here?”
He thought for a moment, then said: “The palace is too stifling. Your estate sounds interesting.”
It wasn’t entirely false.
But there was something else he didn’t say—he always felt she was different from everyone else.
Not because she could grow melons, but because she carried something… he couldn’t put his finger on it. Like she’d seen many things, experienced many things, so she never panicked, never feared. Unlike him—outwardly composed, but often unsure what to do inside.
She never seemed to be like that.
He wanted to know her secret.
But he wouldn’t ask.
Some things, once asked, changed.
He’d just visit sometimes, watch sometimes, listen to her talk about farming things he didn’t fully understand.
That was enough.
On her fourteenth birthday, he’d watched from a distance in the palace.
His father had granted her a plot of land, and she knelt before the hall, her voice clear: “I will give my all, and not fail Your Majesty’s trust!”
He stood behind a pillar, pulled out that lotus seed from his sleeve, held it for a moment, then put it away.
Later, he had the Ministry of Works draw up an irrigation map and sent it to Little Lin Manor.
After reading it, she was delighted and said: “Your Highness always brings help in times of need.”
He didn’t tell her he’d revised that map three times. The first version had the canal channels wrong, the second had the waterwheel in the wrong place, and only the third was passable. The Ministry of Works thought he understood hydraulic engineering—but really, he’d just visited her estate so often that he remembered where every field was.
When she was fifteen, the Jiangnan floods came. He was about to leave for relief work and came to Little Lin Manor to say goodbye. She walked him to the gate and said: “Your Highness, take care.”
He nodded, took a few steps, then turned back.
She stood under the corridor, the setting sun stretching her shadow long.
He suddenly wanted to say something, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.
Later, she wrote in a letter: “The fast-growing cabbage has been planted and is growing well. Your Highness, do not worry.”
Do not worry.
He read it twice, folded the letter, and tucked it into the inner pocket closest to his heart.
— —
After that, his memories grew blurry.
The betrothal, the wedding, the Agriculture and Sericulture Institute, two children…
The days passed too quickly.
So fast that before he knew it, the children were already running; so fast that before he could figure out how to be a father, his daughter was already asking him, “Father, what’s this?”
She was pointing at that lotus seed—the one he kept on his study desk in an old porcelain bowl, soaked in water.
“It’s a lotus seed,” he said.
“Aren’t lotus seeds for eating? Why is this one so dark?”
“It’s been kept for too long.”
“Can it still live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try planting it!” Sui’er said, reaching for it.
He stopped her: “Let’s wait for your mother to come home, then plant it together.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
That night, when Lin Shuying came back from the Agriculture and Sericulture Institute, she saw a new flowerpot on the desk, with that lotus seed buried inside.
Sui’er was lying beside it, looking proud: “Mother! Father told me to plant it!”
Lin Shuying glanced at him.
He said nothing.
She didn’t ask either. She just crouched down, touched the soil in the pot, and said: “Did you water it?”
“Yes!”
“How much?”
“A small bowlful.”
“Too much.” Lin Shuying stood up. “Water it again tomorrow morning—half a bowl will do.”
“Oh.”
Sui’er ran off to play.
Only the two of them remained in the study.
She smiled—a very faint smile—then turned to check on Sui’er’s homework.
He stood there, watching her back, and suddenly remembered.
That year she fell into the lake, he’d picked up this lotus seed, while she’d been clutching that handful of waterweed.
She’d said all the splendor of the world was but an illusion.
The waterweed had long since withered.
But the lotus seed had lived.
— —
Some days later, the lotus seed sprouted.
A tender green tip pushed through the soil, and Sui’er clapped her hands in delight.
He crouched in front of the flowerpot for a long time.
Lin Shuying walked over and stood behind him.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“I’m thinking…” he paused, “about when it’ll bloom.”
“Lotuses bloom in summer. It’s still spring—there’s time.”
“Yes.”
She stood there for a while, then suddenly said: “Shengrui.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For all these years.”
He didn’t speak.
She didn’t say anything more either.
The two stood side by side at the window, looking at that tiny green sprout in the flowerpot.
Outside, the children were running in the courtyard, their laughter drifting in—both distant and near.
— —
The lotus bloomed later.
Not that summer, but the year after.
The bowl had become too small, so it was moved to a lotus pond in the courtyard.
Sui’er went to check on it every day. Finally, one morning, she came running in shouting: “Father! Mother! It’s blooming!”
They went to see it together.
Pink petals, layer upon layer, trembling slightly in the morning breeze.
Sui’er leaned over the edge of the pond, counting petals: “…seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… Mother, how many petals does this flower have?”
“I’ve never counted,” Lin Shuying crouched down. “Probably around… twenty.”
“No!” Sui’er said seriously. “Twenty-one petals! I counted twice!”
Lin Shuying smiled: “Then Sui’er is sharper than Mother.”
Xiao Shengrui stood behind them, watching his wife and daughter crouched by the lotus pond.
The lotus had bloomed, the seed had lived, the children had grown, and she was still here.
He suddenly felt that this was enough.
— —
Many more years passed.
The lotus roots in the pond multiplied and were divided into several pots.
The year Sui’er married, they moved one pot to her husband’s home.
The year Yan’er took up his post at the Ministry of Works, they moved another.
The pot in the old courtyard remained.
One evening, after Lin Shuying had retired from the Agriculture and Sericulture Institute, the two sat under the corridor drinking tea.
She suddenly said: “Shengrui, why did you help me back then?”
“Back then?”
“When I was still at Little Lin Manor. You investigated people for me, brought me seeds, put in a good word before the Emperor. We barely knew each other then.”
He thought for a moment, then went to the study and brought back a small wooden box, handing it to her.
She opened it. Inside was a dried lotus seed.
No—it was a lotus seed, and beside it was another—a fresh one, from last year’s lotus in the courtyard.
The two lay side by side.
The old one had turned dark, with faint golden veins still visible on its surface.
The new one was plump and round, gleaming with a warm luster.
“This is…” she looked up at him.
“The first one I picked up the year you fell in the lake,” he said. “The second is from last year’s lotus in the courtyard.”
She held that small wooden box and was silent for a long time.
“You kept it all these years?”
“Yes.”
She lowered her head, not speaking.
Her fingers gently traced the veins on the old lotus seed.
After a long while, she said: “Shengrui.”
“Yes?”
“In our next life, I’ll still grow melons. Will you come?”
He looked at her profile.
The setting sun fell on her temples, where a few strands of white hair had appeared.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll still bring you seeds.”
She smiled, closed the box, and tucked it into her sleeve.
In the courtyard, the lotus leaves in the pond were beginning to turn yellow.
Autumn was coming.
But he knew—next summer, the flowers would bloom again.
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