Back aboard the shabby pleasure boat, the little maid sat cross-legged with a brush in hand, flipping open a worn leather notebook. The front cover was neatly titled:

  Travel Journal, Yuanqing Year 26.

  She dipped the brush into ink and began to write:

  > Entry – Month 1, Day 21

  Today we entered the capital. Young Master gave away most of his silver to street beggars, then lost the rest. We wandered for two days without food.

  A kind auntie gave us some buns and silver. She said we reminded her of her late son. I think she gave us too much silver. The Young Master didn’t ask why.

  > Entry – Month 2, Day 6

  Young Master bought a painted boat today. Ten silver!

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  He said it was an "investment"—we’d live on it now and sell it later for profit.

  Truth is, he just wanted to park closer to the music. He thinks I don’t know.

  > Entry – Month 2, Day 7

  I bought paper today. Six coins per scroll!

  Young Master said he’d make calligraphy to sell for silver.

  Later heard boats like ours usually cost six silver, not ten. We got ripped off.

  > Entry – Month 2, Day 8

  Tried selling his calligraphy. No one bought it.

  Maybe it was the location. Note to self:

  Don’t set up shop outside gambling dens.

  > Entry – Month 2, Day 9

  Heard other maids have official slave contracts.

  I don’t have one. I should write one myself and give it to the Young Master.

  That way, I’ll be his proper maid.

  Also—he went to the riverside pavilion again. Third day in a row.

  The ink dried slowly on the page. She stretched her arms and yawned.

  “Writing his journal every day. Should’ve asked for pay,” she muttered.

  Outside, Su Mo had returned from the pavilion, the night wind rustling his sleeves.

  He stared at the glowing flower boat across the river, half-drunk, half-awake. He wasn’t jealous, not really. Just… tired. Tired of drifting. Tired of pretending he wasn’t out of place.

  But something in him still stirred at the sound of the flute.

  Somewhere deep—beneath the confusion, the cynicism, and the wine—was a dream that hadn’t quite died.

  >通过春季选拔赛。

  制作黄金名单。

  成为某人。

  他叹了口气，靠在船的栏杆上。

  “也许明天吧，”他低声说。

  女孩从小屋里探出头来，手里拿着卷轴。

  “你昨天也说过了，少爷。”