Chapter 15
Seojun stared blankly into the night. He didn’t need to charge home to the pinewood chest to reinspect the letters.
He knew. Too often he had traced the strokes of Magpie’s writing with the pad of his finger.
The handwriting was like stringed pearls—exquisite, delicate, and precise.
A writing style that rivaled his in power.
Dear Black Lotus,
He closed his eyes, Magpie’s letters as clear to him as memorized verses from a cherished poem.
I am quite convinced that this letter will offend you, and in my hopes of this not becoming a source of unforgivable enmity, I am sending you a pressed flower.
So many are in bloom, and so colorful, even from a glance I can tell what they are.
My favorite ones are many. Forsythias, sansuyu, plum blossoms, pear blossoms, apricot flower, mugunghwa, the blossom from heaven—dansim, baedal, asadal.
But my most favorite are the common wildflowers, for they bring me such delight on my walks.
I digress. I have spent the days reflecting on what you shared.
The words flowed, and with each sentence, Seojun felt the panic in his chest tighten.
Magpie’s handwriting, like Shin Haewon’s, bore the rigid style of the palace that few women outside the royal service used.
He had always found it peculiar, assuming Magpie to be a gentleman, that he would write in such a style, but had attributed it to the fact that it was customary for women to teach boys how to write.
He had thought, perhaps, that a retired court lady had instructed Magpie on writing.
But what stood out most was the distinct yet subtle flare to their style, one he had recognized instantly.
It was the kind of difference only someone intimately familiar could discern, like recognizing the voice of a dear friend in a crowded room.
You wrote that you are discouraged to write, that you feel your work will not impress the heavens.
But what is meaningful? Must one’s work emulate the classics to be a work of significance?
Must your work be cherished by generations to come to be significant?
Is the spring not beautiful, even though it is fleeting and soon forgotten?
Life is difficult, and your books are like shelter in a storm. Isn’t that enough to be meaningful? Forgive my audacity, but I must defend your stories, which have brought me so much joy.
Letter after letter, exchanging thoughts on writing and books.
Over time he’d come to look forward to Magpie’s letters; they had become the peak of his day.
He would study hard, carry out his duties to his father, and reward himself at the end by shutting his books, drawing out a sheet of paper, and pouring all his thoughts into his response.
Dearest Magpie,
It was all part of the joy of book writing—and of life itself.
Joy was only made complete when shared. And what joy he had felt in the world they had built for themselves, letter by letter, a place to be their truest selves, two like-minded frogs trapped within their well, pondering the universe, freely and unafraid. A world he had never wished to leave.
Dearest, dearest Magpie,
Their letters had become a safe space for his heart to breathe. And now those very letters left his heart pounding with an erratic force that terrified him. A cold sheen of perspiration gathered on his back. His limbs wouldn’t stop shaking. Were these indeed Shin Haewon’s words?
He lowered his head into his hands.
The dozens of letters they’d exchanged, the memory of them, now came falling around him, pale letters fluttering like wings in the night.
Life may feel tangled and impossible to grasp, but also life is very simple …
… We flourish, and then the wind blows and we are gone, and its place remembers it no more. When I am gone, the world will remember me no more. But I am not afraid. Life is fleeting and therefore how precious …
… You say your ancestors would be ashamed of you, of your writing. May I speak plainly? I send yet another pressed flower, hoping not to offend you …
… May I speak even plainer? I find myself constantly asking for such liberties, but only because I feel that I have found a kindred spirit. I hope I do not presume too much by saying this, but though we have never met, and perhaps never will, it feels as though I have known you for far longer …
As the candlelight dimmed, and darkness consumed the room, the letters remained as vivid as specters in his mind.