Chapter 4: The Weight of Tradition

When I heard the news, I sat by the window all night.

The moonlight fell in silver stripes across the floor, and the night air was heavy, promising rain, the scent of wet earth rising. I wanted to find something to remember her by, but there was nothing.

No embroidered handkerchief, no scrap of her laughter left behind. I wasn’t lucky enough to transmigrate to a more open and rich era, or to become a princess or queen’s daughter.

No golden bracelets, no palace walls, just the rough mud of our compound. Palace intrigue, power struggles, talented scholars and beauties—none of that had anything to do with me.

Or, to be honest, with most women in this era.

Our stories were woven from chores, silences, and the small joys we snatched when nobody was looking. Tradition, and all those rules about obedience and womanly virtues, pressed down on us like a mountain.

It was like trying to breathe with a wrapper tied too tight round your chest. I feared pain, and I feared death.

I didn’t dare to stand out—I just wanted to survive.

Better to be quiet, to blend in with the dust. I told myself that every morning as I tied my wrapper and swept the yard, watching my own shadow shrink beneath the rising sun.