ok but im obsessed with the idea of lan sizhui growing up with tiny lil pieces of his memory of before still lurking in the back of his mind?
like the first time as a child he sees his uncle play his xiao, and he could have sworn he was playing it wrong, that it was supposed to be held horizontally, not vertically.
or the way he knows lotuses are his favourite flowers even though they don’t grow in cloud recesses, and that if he keeps a lotus seed in his pocket it will bring him luck and protection. when jingyi asks how he knows this, sizhui shakes his head and murmurs it must be a folktale he heard somewhere.
the way his father will play that song on his guqin and sizhui knows it deep in his bones as a lullaby, one that shrouds him in love and warmth but brings an inexplicable sadness that matches the grief in his father’s eyes as he plays.
or when he sees acupuncture needles and thinks of a fierce woman in red who scolded others but was soft with him.
or the way when he sees a grass butterfly toy at a market and he thinks of laughter and a smile brighter than the sun. of a vague recollection of a stolen afternoon with food, and a kind man in blue, and the feeling of happiness and light.
and then he’s older and he meets the ghost general, wen ning, and he remembers an uncle in tatty grey robes with a pale face, who spoke to him in a hushed voice and played with him with gentle hands. whose heart no longer beat but still held more compassion than anyone else he knows. and sizhui’s memories come back fully, one by one, and he remembers.
