Before tragedy carved sorrow into her life, Li Xian lived in a home sweet as
spring wine. Their estate in the hills outside Luoyang bloomed with plum
trees that painted the wind in soft white petals. Her mother often said she
was born under a rain of blossoms and destined for beauty that would one
day make the world pause.
She had dark black hair, heavy as ink, that tumbled past her waist in the
mornings. Her round face, framed by soft cheeks and petal-pink lips, made
many believe she was a celestial painted into human form. But her beauty
was not prideful — she laughed like water, always barefoot in the garden,
chasing butterflies and plucking herbs.
Her father, a minor Tang official, doted on her and taught her calligraphy
and the stars. Her mother sang folk tales and stitched dresses with golden
cranes. The servants adored her; they called her "little moon," for her face
always glowed with warmth. They lived simply, happily — until her parents
began falling ill.
It started with coughing, then fevers. Then silence.
At seven, Li Xian buried both her parents beneath the plum tree.