Widower; Comfort him?

Shambles.

Gaoshun was trapped in a tumultuous sea of grief following the death of his beloved wife, Taomei. Initially, he found himself steeped in denial, stubbornly refraining from accepting the gut-wrenching reality that she was truly gone. It felt almost surreal; his heart was a heavy mass of silence. He didn't experience the expected flood of emotions—there was no sharp blade of anger piercing his being, no warm tears of sadness cascading down his cheeks. Instead, it felt as though a chilling void had settled within him, a gaping hole that seemed endlessly empty. His children were ensconced in sorrow, their faces drawn tight with melancholic expressions during the mourning period, amplifying the unsettling sense of loss that shadowed him. He had witnessed the lifeless form of his wife, had felt her once warm hands turn cold as the life ebbed from her body, and yet the truth remained an elusive specter he could not grasp.

It just wasn’t Taomei anymore; she was a memory, a ghost that haunted the edges of his consciousness.

Master Jinshi had warned him gently to take it easy over the following weeks, encouraging him to process the whirlwind of emotions that should have been cascading through him. Yet, none of it resonated; he felt perpetually lost. Each memory of her death, every moment of the funeral service, all seemed like scenes from a distant dream—unreachable and intangible. Six weeks had elapsed, but the reality of her absence was as raw as it had been the day she departed. As he mechanically ran errands for Master Jinshi, his mind wandered, consumed by an internal struggle to reconcile the numbness that encased his heart.

“... Gaoshun!” Master Jinshi’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. Gaoshun realized he had drifted away from Jinshi, and the ache in his mind surged further as he tried to focus on the man before him. “Are you alright? Perhaps it would be best to take the day off.” Jinshi suggested, his tone laced with both kindness and a hint of concern that Gaoshun could hardly bear.

“What about you, Master Jinshi?” Gaoshun responded, a note of hesitation threading through his words, reluctant to abandon his duties, even for a fleeting moment.

“I'll manage; you fret far too much,” Jinshi assured him, waving off the concern with a casual flick of his wrist. “Besides, I have my favorite apothecary to pester.” His voice held a trace of mischief, a light-hearted jest in spite of their somber situation.

“Xiaomao is not a mere plaything, Master Jinshi; she has her own responsibilities to attend to,” Gaoshun insisted, vexation creeping into his voice as the weight of his own unrest mounted.

“Relax! I genuinely need to meet with Consort Gyokuyou; my visit to the apothecary is just a delightful diversion,” he joked before turning sharply, making his way toward the Jade Pavilion, leaving Gaoshun momentarily relieved yet still encumbered by his feelings.

Alone in the wake of his master’s departure, Gaoshun let out a heavy sigh, welcoming the space to confront his emotions. However, the fleeting relief began to be overshadowed by the unyielding numbness that lurked within. He sought solace in one of the gardens within the outer court, plopping down onto a stone bench, his head sinking into his hands as despair washed over him like an unrelenting tide. The pulsing ache in his temples felt like a relentless drumbeat—all too painful, a reminder of the emotional battle waging inside him. Gaoshun realized he couldn’t remain stuck in this loss; his life couldn’t stay frozen in place, not with his children depending on him for comfort and guidance amidst the storm of their collective grief.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, straightening his back as he gradually lifted his gaze toward the sky, which had begun to transform into a canvas of reddish-pink hues. The clouds, resembling wisps of Dragon’s Beard, floated above him, soft and orange-tinted, a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions stirring within him.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Gaoshun reclined against the bench, his elbows pressed firmly into his thighs, grounding himself in the moment. The rhythmic clicking of approaching shoes disrupted his reverie, and instinctively, he averted his gaze, assuming that a middle-aged man wallowing in self-pity wouldn’t draw much attention. His shoulders slumped as he dropped his head once more.

“Oh, Taomei...” he murmured, rubbing his hand wearily over his face, trying to summon the clarity and strength he so desperately craved. “What do I do?” The words escaped him, a mix of desperation and longing, as he battled against the suffocating blanket of grief that refused to relent.