The gods and Buddhas remain silent, but they see the spring breeze

Everyone in the capital knew Lord Bradley Sterling, heir to the Sterling estate, was hopelessly in love with Miss Layla Cunningham, the minister’s daughter.

Then, after Layla inadvertently drew a divination slip at Kingsport Monastery that read “fated to bear no children,” not a soul dared propose.

So Bradley declared he had drawn the same ill-fated lot. He knelt in the ancestral hall for three days and nights, endured thirty-three lashes, and nearly gave his life to secure her hand.

On their wedding night, the man who claimed no religious belief summoned the abbot to seek a remedy. Willingly taking vows, he donned monastic robes and entered seclusion at Kingsport Monastery for three years, chanting prayers and striking the ritual block.

All that time, Layla lived as a wife in name only.

Yet she never complained, steadfastly awaiting their reunion.

For nine hundred and ninety-nine days, without fail, through rain or shine, Layla would climb the mountain path to the monastery, kneeling and bowing low with every third step. At the summit, she copied a volume of the Diamond Sutra in her own blood and burned it as an offering.

The abbot said sincerity would move the heavens.

Today was the final day. Layla had come especially early.

It was the dead of winter. The rain had frozen into stinging pellets that turned to ice upon the ground.

“May my husband, Bradley Sterling, find joy and health, and live a long life.”

With devout reverence, Layla bowed her head, performing ritual prostrations every few steps as she climbed, the prayer a constant whisper on her lips.

Her maid, Julia, held an umbrella to little avail. Icy pellets dusted Layla’s fox-fur cloak. She shivered, her breath misting the air, yet the relentless rhythm of her ascent never faltered.

The staircase seemed endless. A single misstep would send her tumbling to her death.

Reaching the monastery gate, she stumbled and fell, striking her forehead hard enough to raise a lump. Her cloak was smeared with dark mud.

Layla scrambled to her feet. To approach the sacred task in such a state felt disrespectful.

So Julia found her a warm cell in which to change.

One final volume, copied in blood, and the curse of their “childless fate” would be broken.

Bradley could return to her. They would raise a family and grow old together.

At the thought, a smile warmed Layla’s face. The familiar, sharp pain returned as the dagger sliced her wrist.

She dipped the brush into the welling blood—but before it could touch the paper, indecent sounds drifted from the adjoining cell.

“My lord, you spend every day here entangled with me. What if your wife discovers us?”

“She’s too busy with her prostrations and her bloody scriptures. Now, be good. Turn over.”

“But today is the last day. What will become of me after this, Eva?”

“To make a place for you as my mistress, I arranged for her to draw that barren lot. Yet on the day she