The Ugly Knot

Bai Qingxue didn't answer.

She simply set down her teacup; as the bottom met the stone table, it let out a soft clink.

That sound was exceptionally clear in the quiet courtyard, like something finally settling into place.

Then she reached out and pulled back her sleeve.

Ye Qingyao lowered her head.

She didn't lean in for a closer look, merely watching from a distance.

She was afraid that if she got too close, she would find it was a fake, that she was dreaming, or that the cord had long since broken, been replaced, or vanished.

She was afraid that if she got too close, she would wake up.

So she just watched from afar until she saw it.

The cord was still there.

The knot was still there.

Ye Qingyao stared at that knot.

Seven years had passed; she had almost forgotten what the knot she tied looked like.

In her memory, the knot was neat and beautiful, something she had crafted with great care.

But looking at it now, Ye Qingyao was suddenly unsure.

Had she really tied that? Was that messy, indescribable thing truly her handiwork?

Ye Qingyao tried hard to recall that evening seven years ago.

Bai Qingxue had been lying on the bed, her face as white as paper.

She had crouched by the bedside, untying the cord from her own scabbard.

She remembered her hands shaking; she remembered tying it very gently; she remembered Sister Bai’s breathing being so faint back then that she feared the next breath wouldn't come.

But she didn't remember what the knot actually looked like.

So she had lied to herself for seven years, telling herself it was a beautiful knot, a neat knot, a knot worthy of Sister Bai.

But now she saw it.

It wasn't.

The knot wasn't what she remembered.

It was a knot where the end hadn't been finished properly, just several messy loops tucked in at random.

There was no clear beginning or end, just a messy, indescribable tangle.

If she had to describe it, it was...

Ugly.

Very ugly.

So ugly that Ye Qingyao stared at it for a long time, long enough to confirm she hadn't misseen it.

So ugly that as she stared, her eyes suddenly burned.

Because Sister Bai had been wearing this ugly thing.

For seven years.

Ye Qingyao opened her mouth to say something, but her throat felt as if it were being squeezed, and no sound came out.

She could only stare at the knot, at those messy loops of cord, at the tucked-in end, and at the fine, frayed edges on that loose end.

Those frayed edges were caused by the rubbing of her cuffs.

They were rubbed by the inner lining of her robes. Bit by bit, through every day of those seven years, every movement, every time she raised her hand, and every time she swung her sword, they had been worn down.

Sister Bai had worn it while practicing her sword.

She had worn it to Nanhuai.

She had worn it through every single day of those seven years.

Ye Qingyao’s mind suddenly became very chaotic.

She thought of how she had left after tying it seven years ago; she thought of how she had repeatedly asked herself over the years, “Will Sister Bai throw it away?”; she thought of how she had practiced tying knots in the back mountains of Qingyun Peak until her fingers bled.

She thought of how she had waited seven years—waited seven years before finally daring to ask, “Is it still there?”

And now the answer was right before her eyes.

That knot, so ugly she almost didn't want to claim it, was tied quietly around Bai Qingxue’s wrist, as if it belonged there, as if there had never been any hesitation about whether to keep it.

Ye Qingyao suddenly wanted to laugh.

And cry.

She didn't know what expression to make, so her face remained blank, even as tears began to fall, drop by drop, splashing onto the stone table and onto the back of her own hand.

“Sister Bai,” Ye Qingyao called out, her voice raspy.

Bai Qingxue looked at her.

Ye Qingyao sniffled and used her sleeve to haphazardly wipe her face, brushing away the tears, but new ones immediately welled up.

“This knot...”

Ye Qingyao paused, her voice trembling, but she forced herself to continue.

“This knot is so ugly.”

Bai Qingxue looked down at the knot on her wrist.

That messy, unfinished, absurdly ugly knot.

She looked at it for a couple of breaths.

“Mm,” she said.

A single word.

Ye Qingyao waited a moment, expecting her to say more.

But Bai Qingxue said nothing else.

She simply kept her head lowered, looking at the ugly knot, as if waiting for Ye Qingyao to continue asking.

Ye Qingyao bit her lip.

She should have stopped there.

She had her answer. “It’s still there.” That was enough.

She should do as she always did—know when to stop, not pry, not overstep, and then turn and leave to process it on her own.

But today, she didn't want to leave.

Today, she didn't want to just leave it at that.

“Then why didn't you re-tie it?” Ye Qingyao asked.

Ye Qingyao’s voice was louder than she expected, so loud it startled her.

But she didn't want to take it back.

The words were already out, just as that cord had already been tied seven years ago; there was no taking it back.

Bai Qingxue looked up at her.

There was light in those pale eyes, faint, like the winter sun—it didn't feel like much on your skin, but you couldn't say it wasn't there.

Ye Qingyao felt a bit uneasy under her gaze, her fingers twisting and turning inside her sleeves, but she didn't hide.

Today, she didn't want to hide.

“You wore it for seven years,” Ye Qingyao said again, her voice a bit softer, but each word was articulated clearly. “You wore such an ugly knot. Those people around you... didn't they ask? Didn't they laugh at you?”

Ye Qingyao didn't want to mention “that person,” didn't want to mention the pendant, and certainly didn't want to mention the red mark.

She only wanted to ask this.

This was also the only thing she had the right to ask.

Bai Qingxue looked at her for a while before speaking calmly. “No one saw it.”

Ye Qingyao was stunned. “What?”

“It was hidden in my sleeve,” Bai Qingxue said. “No one saw it.”

Hearing this, Ye Qingyao lowered her head, her gaze falling on the hideously ugly knot around Bai Qingxue’s wrist.

The knot was wound crookedly, the ends were not properly finished, and several green silk threads were sticking out, frayed and clinging softly to Bai Qingxue’s fair skin.

Tied for seven years.

Worn for seven years.

The knot she had tied in a complete mess because her hands were shaking was now like a thin scab, covering Sister Bai’s pulse.

Ye Qingyao stared at the knot for a long time.

So long that the twilight shifted from one end of the stone table to the other; so long that a leaf from the old plum tree fell onto her lap, and she didn't brush it away.

Then she reached out her hand.

Only when her fingertips touched it did she realize her hand was trembling slightly.

It had been far too long since she had touched Sister Bai.

Seven years, over two thousand days and nights, and Ye Qingyao could only miss her from afar.

But now, she could finally touch Sister Bai.

Ye Qingyao’s fingertips touched the frayed silk threads—rough and coarse, like every night in those seven years when she couldn't get any news.

Her fingertips slid down the knot, reaching beneath it, and touched Bai Qingxue’s skin.

It was cool.

Sister Bai’s skin was cool.

That coolness spread from her fingertips, crawling up her finger pads to her wrist, and then to her heart.

Ye Qingyao’s fingers paused.

Her entire being paused, as if she were frozen in place.

But she didn't pull back.

She simply stayed there, pressed against that coolness, for a very long time.