In the waning days of the Tang Dynasty, when lanterns floated like stars upon the rivers of Chang’an, I lived quietly within the palace walls—not as a noble, but as the daughter of a court scholar. My father taught the young prince, and I often accompanied him to the gardens where he studied beneath the apricot trees.

That is where I met Li Shen.

He was the crown prince—graceful, sharp-eyed, the hope of the empire. But to me, he was just Shen, the boy who chased butterflies and argued about poetry, who stole my rice cakes when he thought I wasn’t looking.

We grew like twin plum trees, close in root and branch, blooming every spring with laughter and secrets. I never imagined a life without him.

But seasons change.

When we turned seventeen, talk of his marriage began. The court buzzed with names of princesses and noble ladies, alliances and dowries. I kept smiling, though my heart ached like a frozen branch waiting for spring.

One night, beneath the lantern-lit plum trees, I finally told him.

“My heart… it does not beat the same when you are near, Shen. It’s not just friendship anymore.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he looked at me—not as a prince, not as a friend, but as someone who mourned something before it could ever live.

“You are the dearest part of my soul,” he said gently. “But I cannot love you in the way you deserve. I will always be your friend, but I must walk a path that was chosen for me, not by my heart."

Tears didn’t fall. I was the daughter of a scholar, taught to endure.

But that night, a single plum blossom dropped into my teacup, delicate and silent. Just like the love I had for him.

Now I watch the seasons pass from afar. He writes me letters still—kind ones, filled with poems and news of the court. I respond with grace, with the warmth of an old friend.

"Love slipped through my trembling hands, Your heart untouched — a distant land. I wore my pain like silent thorns, A rose that withers, never born."