A Visit from the Past
The sun filtered gently through the gauze curtains of Jia Lan's room, casting golden patterns on the rosewood floor. Outside, the compound buzzed faintly with the rhythm of a slow summer day — bicycle bells, a tin radio across the courtyard, the clink of ceramic teacups from the kitchens.
Inside, her room was still — scented faintly of rose powder and quiet.
Jia Lan sat at her vanity, brushing her long hair with slow, even strokes. Her silk robe, peach-pink with a lotus pattern, slipped slightly at the collar, revealing the curve of her neck. No meetings today, no public functions, no emergencies at the Bureau. Just a quiet day off — the kind she used to long for in her previous life.
The knock came softly.
"Lanlan," called the maid through the door, "you've received a letter. From out of town."
Jia Lan blinked in surprise. People rarely sent her handwritten letters. Her social circle favored the home phone line or had someone deliver things directly. She set her brush down and walked to the door, accepting the envelope.
Plain paper. Neat, careful handwriting. A name she didn't recognize at first glance.
She opened it gently.
"Dear Jia Lan," the first line read. And as her eyes scanned further, her breath caught.
---
Xiao Xue.
The name struck something tender in her chest — not from memory, but from emotion. Xiao Xue was not someone she, the transmigrated soul, had known. But she had read the original Jia Lan's letters, seen her old report cards, found pressed flowers between her notebooks. Xiao Xue had been her closest friend back in the provincial girls' school. Someone the real Jia Lan had loved deeply.
And now, unknowingly, this girl had written to her — to Jia Lan — as if nothing had changed.
Her chest tightened.
This letter wasn't meant for her. Not truly. But she was the one living this life now. Wearing the name. Sleeping in the silk sheets the original Jia Lan had once claimed. And so the responsibility… no, the grace… of answering it now fell to her.
---
The letter was simple.
Xue wrote about her life — married to a clerk in a small town, living with in-laws, raising a baby boy. She didn't complain, but the tone was weary. She missed friendship. She missed writing. She missed Jia Lan.
There was no request. No bitterness. Just… memory, folded carefully into ink.
Jia Lan's eyes lingered on the last line.
"Sometimes, I wonder if you still remember the girl with the green ribbon."
She folded the letter slowly and stared at it for a long time.
No, she didn't remember. But she could still honor that memory.
She felt a strange ache. As if some part of the original Jia Lan stirred quietly inside her, leaving behind warmth where once there had been silence.
---
She sat down at her desk — not the one for Bureau reports, but the writing desk she kept for personal letters. She chose her finest pressed paper, dipped her pen into the inkstone, and began writing in a flowing, graceful hand.
---
"Xue,"
Your letter brought me back — not just to schoolyards and shared lunches, but to a time when life felt simpler, and hearts spoke more directly.
I still remember your steamed buns, your crooked ponytail, your fearless mouth. You always said I looked proud — and you were right — but you never let that stop you from reaching me anyway.
Life has changed. I've changed. But the truth is, I've never forgotten you.
You didn't ask for anything, and that makes me want to do something even more. I've enclosed the name of someone at the provincial library recruitment office. No promises, but it may be a door — one that belongs to you, if you wish to open it.
As for your in-laws — tell them I said if you're cooking, they should count their blessings and eat in silence.
With warmth,
Lanlan"
P.S. Kiss your little boy for me. One day, he'll brag his mother was the smartest girl in her class — and he'll be right.
---
She folded the letter, added a small calling card with the librarian's name and office seal — subtle help, no pity — and sealed it with red wax stamped in the character for "grace."
As she set it aside, she caught her reflection in the vanity mirror.
Hair like black silk. Posture straight. Eyes calm.
"I may not have lived your memories," she whispered inwardly, "but I'll carry them forward with dignity."
That was the kind of woman the real Jia Lan had been, wasn't it?
And if the world believed she was still here — then she would be. Completely.
---
Later that evening, as the crickets began their chorus outside the windows and a light breeze rustled the garden magnolias, Jia Lan stepped outside to find her mother in the courtyard, trimming chrysanthemums.
Lin Shunhua looked up. "You look gentle today."
"Do I?" Jia Lan knelt beside her, letting her fingers brush over the petals. "Maybe I was reminded of something I shouldn't forget."
Her mother smiled faintly. "It's good. Even the most spoiled flower blooms better with memory in the soil."
Jia Lan plucked a blossom and held it to her nose, her lashes lowered.
She had not grown up in this garden. But she would bloom in it now.
Quietly. Beautifully. With roots the world would never see.
She remained in the courtyard long after her mother returned inside, letting the evening wind stir the ends of her sleeves. Somewhere nearby, a child's laughter echoed faintly, and the scent of simmering rice drifted through the hedges.
Jia Lan stood slowly, brushing dust from her knees.
There was power in living quietly. Power in choosing grace over spectacle.
And though no one would ever know she wasn't the original Jia Lan, she would live in a way that honored the name.
Not just beautifully.
But kindly.
And that, she thought, was the finest legacy a girl could carry forward.
"I used to think rebirth meant starting over," she thought quietly, "but maybe… it means continuing something beautiful someone else began."
Quietly. Beautifully. With roots the world would never see.
And under the golden dusk, with chrysanthemums between her fingers and a quiet secret in her chest, she lived that beauty — silently, sincerely, and completely.