Baifa Monü Zhuan
The path from the private garden back toward the palace wound gently upward through shaded colonnades and petal-strewn quartz gravel, the stones crunching softly beneath the measured steps of the four women, each footfall a quiet counterpoint to the lingering rhythm of the dance that still echoed in their bodies, a rhythm that seemed to pulse in their very bones, a reminder of the joy they had just shared, the connection they had forged, the beauty they had created together in that sun-dappled clearing.
Junko walked at an unhurried pace, the southern twins Zara and Lira flanking her with easy companionship, their teal-and-gold wraps still faintly dusted with cherry blossoms from the dance, a few petals clinging to the fabric at their shoulders and hips as though the garden itself had marked them with its blessing, had claimed them as its own for a brief, shining moment, a moment that would linger in their memories long after the petals had fallen and the music had faded.
Junko walked at an unhurried pace, the southern twins Zara and Lira flanking her with easy companionship, their teal-and-gold wraps still faintly dusted with cherry blossoms from the dance, a few petals clinging to the fabric at their shoulders and hips as though the garden itself had marked them with its blessing, had claimed them as its own for a brief, shining moment, a moment that would linger in their memories long after the petals had fallen and the music had faded.