Crying While Filling the Pit I Dug - Chapter 62

Most of these movies were highly acclaimed in modern society, and Song Miaomiao had never seen them before. They ranged from European and American productions to Chinese.

In a daze, Song Miaomiao watched seven or eight movies. To observers, it seemed as though she was lost in thought, even when the Emperor paid her a visit. She remained unresponsive, engrossed in a particularly touching love story, unable to control her emotions.

“Xiaoxiao,” the Emperor called, shaking his hand in front of her and gently nudging her arm. “What’s the matter?”

The movie was projected directly onto Song Miaomiao’s retina, enveloping her senses as if she were experiencing everything firsthand. Suddenly, she was jolted awake, initially disoriented about her surroundings. Then, in a moment of clarity, she realized her situation was akin to being trapped in a book, akin to Zhuang Zhou’s dream of being a butterfly.

In that moment of awakening, Song Miaomiao felt a profound sense of detachment from her reality, as if she were merely a character in a story, subject to the whims of the narrative. The lines between her world and the fictional realm blurred, leaving her to question the nature of her existence and the boundaries of her reality.

She didn’t know whether what she saw was real, or if everything in the movie world was real, or if the real world in that distant memory was real. For a moment, she felt lost.

“Emperor,” Song Miaomiao struggled to regain her composure as Princess Changrou, “Father Emperor.”

The Emperor, concerned, inquired, “What’s the matter? Are you feeling unwell?”

Shaking her head, Song Miaomiao replied, “No, I’ve recently become engrossed in reading a new story. I find it quite captivating.”

“Oh? What story is it? Let me see,” the Emperor requested eagerly.

Song Miaomiao retrieved the storybook that Xiao Chengqi had brought earlier and explained, “Brother was concerned that I might be bored, so he purchased this for me from the store.” She hid the fact that it was Yi Qing who had gifted it, instead attributing it to her brother. Perhaps subconsciously, she couldn’t quite believe it was Yi Qing’s idea. Such childish behavior would suit the female lead.

The Emperor casually opened the book and, settling by the fire, began reading with keen interest.

Song Miaomiao was puzzled by the Emperor’s unexpected interest. She had no choice but to politely dismiss the servants and refrain from turning on the movie again. She feared losing herself in it, rendering her unable to hear what the Emperor said.

With nothing else to do, Song Miaomiao picked up another storybook the Emperor hadn’t read and began reading. Compared to the movie she had watched earlier, the plot of the book was much simpler, lacking the twists and turns that had captivated her. In other words, it was less engaging.

To her surprise, the Emperor became increasingly absorbed in reading, tears welling in his eyes. 

“Bring Si Lefang here. We must arrange this story into a play,” he commanded.

The servants around the Emperor promptly took their leave.

The warm glow of the fire illuminated the Emperor’s face as he spoke tenderly, “If your mother were still here, she would have loved this play dearly.”

That was the first time the Emperor had initiated a conversation about the deceased Empress in quite some time.

Song Miaomiao found herself momentarily at a loss for words. Eventually, she decided to steer the conversation in the direction the Emperor had chosen. “Father, which play was Mother’s favorite?”

“The Peony Pavilion,” the Emperor replied, reciting a line from it affectionately, “I don’t know where it started, but it runs deep. The living can die, and the dead can live. Life cannot be with death, and the dead cannot be resurrected. None of these is the ultimate result of love.”

Life and death.

Like the Emperor and the late Empress, separated by a river of forgetfulness into two distinct worlds.

“Life is inseparable from death,” the Emperor murmured. “It’s the outcome of love.”

The meaning of that sentence was probably that the living party was unwilling to die for love, which couldn’t be regarded as the ultimate of love.

Was the Emperor harboring guilt for not being able to join the deceased Empress…?

Such thoughts felt dangerous.

“Father, I once read that a person’s true death is not the death of the body, but rather when others forget her existence, leaving no trace behind in this world,” Song Miaomiao offered, gently linking her arm with the Emperor’s, hoping to provide him with comfort. “So, as long as we remember her, she will never truly leave us, and she will live on in our hearts forever.”

She continued, “Life and death are merely forms. The living remember the dead, while the dead reside in the hearts of the living. That, to me, is the essence of love.”

The Emperor whispered softly, “Residing in the depths of my heart…”

Seeing the Emperor lost in contemplation, his eyes flickering with memories, Song Miaomiao decided not to disturb him further. She sensed that bringing up the Empress would only reopen old wounds, adding salt to his already painful memories.

Reflecting on her experiences in this world, Song Miaomiao realized that the challenges she faced were different from the physical trials of the previous martial arts world. Here, the difficulty lay in navigating complex psychological dilemmas. The tasks she undertook often seemed to inflict harm on others, such as her role in the romantic entanglements of the characters or the Empress’s tragic demise before the Emperor’s eyes.

While she had initially written about fate’s impermanence as an observer, becoming a character allowed her to empathize with the pain and struggles of those within its pages.

The two remained in silence for an indeterminate amount of time before the Emperor wearily made his way back to the Zhanggan Hall.

Song Miaomiao found solace in her temporary escape into the world of movies. For her, watching movies served two purposes: it offered the chance to experience something new and provided a temporary reprieve from her troubling reality. However, the more she engaged in various tasks, the more her moral guilt weighed on her conscience.

Every action she took seemed to inflict harm on someone else, leaving her trapped in a cycle of moral dilemmas. If she pursued her goal of marrying the male lead and aiding the Crown Prince in marrying the female lead, she would inadvertently hurt the male and female leads. Conversely, if she chose not to intervene, she risked failing her tasks, causing harm to herself. And in her attempts to persuade the Emperor to move on, she found herself constantly reopening his emotional wounds by mentioning the late Empress.

In her eyes, every step forward or backward only served to hurt someone else, leaving her feeling trapped in a self-made pit of despair.

Why did she write these things?! She remembered the purpose of the system: the pit she dug herself, she must fill it even if she was crying…

The first cry was a cry of physical fatigue, but now the cry was a cry of guilt.

With movies to provide entertainment, the days flowed by like water, and soon it was time for the Spring Festival. The wedding between the Princess and Yi Qing was swiftly approaching, necessitating a rush to prepare auspicious attire for the occasion. Song Miaomiao instructed Yan Yu to generously reward those involved in the preparations, sparing no expense.