RoleplayNovel Chapter 28 Perhaps it's because of the unknown dream.
Chapter 28 Perhaps it's because of the unknown dream.
A pair of ivory-white calves were lowered, and the tender feet touched the ground.
The stone slabs were cool, and that coolness spread from the soles of my feet, up my ankles, calves, and knees, like a quiet little snake.
But the girl did not pull her feet back.
She's used to it.
The stone slabs of this palace are cool all year round, just like the air inside is cold all year round, just like the people inside are always...
She couldn't quite put her finger on the word.
It wasn't cold; it was something more complex, something she hadn't yet learned to name.
She stood by the bed.
The bed was so big that when she lay in the middle, she couldn't reach any of the edges with her arms outstretched.
The curtains were deep red, hanging to the ground like a ring of congealed blood. She didn't like the color, but no one ever asked her if she liked it or not.
She pushed open the door to the room.
Soft sunlight streamed in through the large window, falling on her face, her arms, and the folds of her white nightgown.
The light was golden, warm, carrying the trails of dust particles slowly swirling in the air.
She squinted, like a small animal just peeking out of its burrow, momentarily dazzled by the light of the world.
Then she saw the woman.
The woman was sitting on a low stool by the window, adjusting her gloves.
Her fingers were long and white, with distinct knuckles, and each nail was trimmed into a perfect oval shape.
She wore a dark blue long dress, the hem of which spread out at her feet like a still lake.
Her hair was dark brown, coiled at the back of her head, with a few stray strands hanging down from her temples, shimmering with an amber luster in the sunlight.
Her face—the moment Chen Mo saw that face, all the words in his mind shattered like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
He couldn't find a single word to describe that face.
It's not beauty. The word "beauty" is too thin, too light, like a piece of paper, unable to cover what's on that face.
There was a light on that face. Not sunlight, not candlelight, not light in any physical sense—it was a warm light emanating from beneath the skin, like the flame in a fireplace in winter.
The woman looked up and saw the girl, or rather, she saw "Chen Mo".
"Bottema," the woman said.
The voice was neither too loud nor too soft, neither too high nor too low, just the standard volume for a mother calling her daughter.
But there was something in that voice—something soft, like cotton—that gently tugged at something deep within Chen Mo's consciousness.
Then he felt himself flying.
It's not him running. It's Portma running.
Chen Mo understood at that moment: he was simply inside Potema's body, using Potema's legs, Potema's feet, and Potema's heart to run towards that woman.
He felt the wind brush past his ears, felt the hem of his nightgown flutter around his knees, and felt his little heart pounding in his chest.
He—she—threw into the woman's arms.
My cheeks were buried in the enormous softness.
That scent—not perfume, not floral fragrance, but something more primal, more ancient, something etched deep into his genes and memory—overwhelmed his sense of smell like a tidal wave.
Warm, sweet, the scent of a mother.
Chen Mo's consciousness wavered for a moment amidst that smell.
It wasn't his daze, it was Potema's.
A seven-year-old girl buried her face in her mother's chest, her hands clutching the front of her mother's dress, her knuckles turning white from the force.
"Mother," a muffled voice came from between the fabric and skin, "Are you leaving again?"
The woman's hand landed on her head. Her fingers ran through her hair, combing from her forehead to the back of her head, once, once, and again.
That touch—when my fingernail gently brushed against my scalp, a faint, electric-like tingling sensation spread from the top of my head throughout my body. It was a touch that only a mother could give me.
"Yes." The woman's voice came from above, gentle and calm, as if she were saying something perfectly normal. "Your father still has many matters to attend to in Camron."
"Do we have to go back to Gaoyan?" The girl's voice was even more muffled than before, as muffled as thunder echoing deep in the lake.
The woman's hands didn't stop. Her fingers continued to run through her hair, combing across her forehead, her sideburns, and the back of her head, finally stopping behind her ear and gently pinching her earlobe.
"Bottema." The woman didn't answer her question. She just called her name.
When the woman uttered those words, they carried a strange rhythm—bo-te-ma, three syllables, the middle one being gently drawn out, with the final syllable rising slightly, like a song with only three words.
Chen Mo felt his eyes stinging.
The girl buried her face in her mother's chest, desperately trying to hold back her tears.
She didn't want her mother to see her crying when she passed away.
She didn't want to be the kind of child who cried and begged her mother to stay.
The sound of the door opening came from behind me.
Footsteps.
Steady, powerful, each step carried a habitual, unquestionable rhythm.
Chen Mo—Botema—lifted his head from his mother's arms and turned toward the door.
The man stood in the porch.
He's very tall. Not much shorter than the door frame.
He had broad shoulders, and the deep red imperial robe he wore was stretched into two sharp creases by his shoulder blades.
His face—the first word that popped into Chen Mo's mind when he saw that face was "eagle".
It's not the eagle's ferocity, but its sharpness.
He had high cheekbones, a square jaw, a nose as straight as a ruler, and deep brown eyes that were almost black in backlight.
His hair was dark brown, just like a woman's, but thicker and coarser, with a few strands of gray at his temples.
His lips turned down slightly, with a curve forged by power and time, a muscle memory-like quality.
The man stood there, backlit, like a portrait hanging at the end of a palace corridor.
It's not the people in the painting, it's the painting itself.
It is as if the painting, belonging to the concept of "emperor," was built stroke by stroke by the painter using the most expensive paints, the finest brushstrokes, and the longest working hours.
Portma loosened her mother's skirt.
She stood up, turned around, and faced the man.
Her movements were slow and steady, every detail as if rehearsed countless times—her hands hung at her sides, her back straight, her chin slightly tucked in, her gaze fixed on the man's chest, avoiding direct eye contact. Then she bent her knees.
"Father." The voice was neither loud nor soft, neither gentle nor harsh, completely different from the voice that had been muffled in his mother's chest just now.
The man's gaze fell on her.
Those deep brown eyes lingered on her face for a moment—just a moment—but Chen Mo sensed what was hidden in that instant.
It wasn't scrutiny, it wasn't evaluation, it wasn't a father looking at his daughter.
It was something more complex, something he couldn't name at the moment.
It's like someone seeing a flower in the desert. He knows that the flower will bloom at some time he can't see, perhaps in a very bright bloom, or perhaps in a very short time.
His lips twitched—not in a smile, but a slight movement held back by his muscles, a hesitant gesture as if he wanted to say something but couldn't.
"Your mother and I are going back to High Rock." The man's voice was lower than he had expected, with a rough, sandpaper-like quality, but the ending was rounded, carrying an ancient, Septine accent. "Potterma, you've grown up."
Inside Potema's body, Chen Mo listened to a father talking to his seven-year-old daughter.
"You must have the ability to distinguish right from wrong," the man continued.
His gaze shifted from Potema's face to somewhere outside the window.
Outside the window was a distant view of the capital—white marble buildings, golden domes, and the Niben River faintly visible in the distance. "I heard you've been hanging out with some shady characters lately, learning petty theft."
The voice didn't get louder, and the tone didn't change, but Chen Mo felt that Portma's breathing paused for a moment.
"Remember your place." The man's gaze shifted from the window back to Portma. "This is not something a princess should be doing."
Chen Mo felt Portma's hands clench slightly on both sides of her skirt.
"Yes, Father." She lowered her head so low that her toes could be seen peeking out from under her nightgown.
silence.
Three seconds, five seconds, or maybe longer.
In that silence, Chen Mo heard the birds chirping outside the window, the echo of the servants' boots on the marble floor at the end of the corridor, and the rhythm of the man's breathing—deep, shallow, deep, shallow.
Then the man moved.
He took a step forward.
It's just one step.
Chen Mo could feel that Portma's body tensed up slightly.
—It wasn't fear, but something more complex, something she herself couldn't quite explain.
The man raised his hand, hovered in mid-air for a moment, and then landed on her head.
That hand was very heavy. Much heavier than a woman's hand.
The warmth of her palms was intense, and the calluses on her fingertips brushed against her hair, making a soft rustling sound.
The movement lasted for a second, maybe two seconds. Then the hand was withdrawn.
"Let's go," the man said to the woman as he turned around.
The woman stood up, her skirt flowing down from her feet, forming a still lake once more.
She came over and placed a kiss on Portma's forehead.
The lips were warm and soft, with a hint of sweet lip balm.
Then she turned and walked toward the man.
The two stood side by side in the porch.
The man extended his hand, and the woman placed her hand on top of it.
Their fingers were intertwined, as naturally as breathing.
Sunlight streamed in through the window, falling on them and gilding their silhouettes with a golden edge.
The way they stood together—the tall, sharp-looking man and the gentle, beautiful woman—was like another oil painting.
A perfect painting, meticulously rehearsed countless times, belonging to the imperial family.
Then they turned and went through the door.
The door was open.
There is light outside.
The golden light spilled out from the door frame.
The light fell on Chen Mo's consciousness, reminding him of that star.
The two people walked into the light.
The man's back view—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the hem of his imperial robe gradually becoming transparent in the light.
The woman's back view—the dark blue skirt, bathed in light, resembled a flower withering.
They walked slowly and steadily, each step on some unseen rhythm.
Then the light merged together.
The door closed.
Or there is no door. Or the door has always been there, but no more light is spilling out from it.
Portma stood still.
Her hands were still hanging at her sides, her back was still straight, and her chin was still slightly tucked in.
She stared at that door—that door frame that no longer had any light—for a long time.
So long that Chen Mo thought she would stand there forever, until dark, until dawn, until someone came to take her away.
Then she reached out her hand.
That hand was very small.
A seven-year-old's hand. Long, slender fingers, neatly trimmed nails—her mother had cut them yesterday.
There are a few faint red marks on the back of my hand that are almost fading. They were scratched by tree branches when I was climbing a tree in the garden the day before yesterday.
The hand reached towards the door.
Reaching out into that empty void where there is no light.
Her lips moved slightly.
Chen Mo didn't hear what she was trying to say.
Perhaps she herself hadn't thought clearly about what she wanted to say.
Perhaps the unspoken word rolled around in her throat, blocked by her teeth, pressed down by her tongue, swallowed by her vocal cords, and finally turned into a silent breath, slowly exhaled from her nostrils.
Then the hand was lowered.
No sound. No tears. No falling. No screams.
A seven-year-old imperial princess stood in the porch, her hands down.
My back is still straight. My chin is still tucked in. My breathing is still steady.
Inside Potema's body, Chen Mo could feel the tiny heart still beating in her chest.
bang bang bang-
bang bang bang-
It was at the same frequency as when she rushed into her mother's arms.
Now, however, the space for that heart to beat has become larger.
It was so big that he felt it was empty.
……
Chen Mo didn't know when he had woken up.
He lay back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.
Dark beams, rough wood grain, wrought iron candlesticks.
In the morning in Dugu City, sunlight squeezed through the gaps in the curtains, drawing a golden band of light on the floor.
Everything was exactly the same as it was before he fell asleep.
But something seemed to slide across his cheek.
He reached out and touched his face.
My fingertips are wet.