A child's voice broke the harmony."Mama, look— a ghost!"
The laughter stopped as if the night itself had forgotten its next breath.
Heads turned toward the willow shadows. Dozens of eyes, bright with lanternlight, fixed on the pale girl standing half-hidden among the trees.
Yin Lian froze.
The world seemed to draw a single, trembling line between her and them. The drums fell silent, even the river slowed.
Her robe shimmered faintly where the light touched it, gray silk turning to silver. Around her, the air wavered, softening the red and gold glow into muted ash tones. The sound of insects ceased. The grass beneath her feet bent flat, as if bowing.
To the villagers, it looked as though a piece of moonlight had taken human form.
"She's too pale…" someone whispered."No shadow under her feet.""The ghost from the Ridge!"
Their murmurs rose, a low tide of fear swelling through the crowd. A man dropped his lantern, wax splattered across the dirt.
Lian took a step back. She didn't understand what they saw—only that the warmth she had admired moments ago had turned cold, sharp.
"I… I'm sorry," she tried to say, but the words barely escaped her throat. Her voice carried no echo, it dissolved into the air like breath on glass.
Someone shrieked. "She silenced the wind!"Another clutched a talisman, chanting broken prayers.
She wanted to tell them she meant no harm, that she only wished to see their lights, but every syllable she formed came out wrong—too quiet, too heavy, as if her tongue spoke in a language made of hush.
Fear moved through the crowd like sparks through dry grass. Mothers yanked children close. Men lifted incense sticks like torches. Someone hurled a handful of salt toward her, the grains scattered midair and fell soundless.
The old man near the bridge raised his trembling voice."Stay back! The forest spirit brings misfortune! Last year's flood—she was seen then too!"
Superstition spread faster than sense. The smell of burning sandalwood thickened, acrid and desperate.
Lian's pulse thundered. Every pair of eyes was a mirror showing her what she could not see in herself—something strange, wrong, frightening. She felt her heart beating too loud, her breath too still.
Why are they afraid? she wanted to ask. Do I truly look like death?
She took another step back, but the movement only deepened their panic. The air around her bent inward, drawing in the nearest flames, lanterns guttered, their light paling.
"Look! She's eating the fire!""She'll curse us all—!"
She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. "No, I—please, I only—"
Her plea fractured under the noise. Someone pushed through the crowd, shouting for others to run. A mother's cry, a child's sob, the slap of sandals against stone—everything blurred into one rushing sound.
A lantern fell, struck the water, and went out with a hiss that pierced her like a blade.
Lian flinched. The light vanished, swallowed whole. Her hands trembled around the small white lotus she still held. For a heartbeat she thought the river itself recoiled from her, the current splitting to flow around her reflection.
I just wanted to see, she thought helplessly. I wanted to belong to the light for a moment.
The sight of the terrified faces cut deeper than any blade. She could feel their fear cling to her skin like smoke—each heartbeat of panic feeding her own. Her throat closed, a sob refusing to form. The stillness she carried began to spread, turning the edge of the river glass-smooth.
Someone gasped as their lanterns slowed mid-drift."She's freezing the water!"
That broke her.
She turned and ran. Branches whipped against her arms, lantern light flickered through the trees like shards of memory chasing her steps. The noise behind her faded until all that remained was the sound of her breathing—uneven, sharp, swallowed by the forest's hush.
When she reached the spirit spring, the moon had already climbed high. The water gleamed white and calm, untouched by human sound.
Her lungs burned, her fingers ached from clutching the crushed paper lotus. She opened them slowly. The straw thread had snapped, the petals crumpled.
"I only wanted to see," she whispered. The words trembled, then disappeared into the night like mist.
She knelt by the spring and tried to smooth the lotus back into shape. The paper tore under her fingertips.
Tears came quietly. They didn't fall far, the air caught them, turning them into small beads of dew upon her sleeves.
She set the broken lotus upon the water. For a moment, it floated—then the glow of the moon dimmed around it. The petals soaked through and sank, spiraling down until they vanished into the silver depths.
"Maybe warmth wasn't meant for me," she murmured. Her reflection in the spring wavered—eyes too wide, mouth too still. Even the ripples avoided her face.
The forest gave no answer. Only the faint sigh of wind through pine needles, gentle but distant, as if consoling her from far away.
Back at the hut, Hui Yuan sat cross-legged beside the brazier. The forest spirits hovered near the door, whispering among themselves, their translucent bodies dimmed by unease. He didn't need to look up to know why the air had turned heavy.
When the door creaked, he said quietly, "You saw their lights, didn't you?"
Lian lingered on the threshold, head bowed. "They called me a ghost."
His hand paused above the teapot. "Mortals fear what they cannot name," he said. "It's their way of protecting what little they understand."
"But I frightened them." Her voice broke. "I didn't want to."
Hui Yuan looked at her then—really looked—and his heart twisted. The child who had once made the forest bloom with silence now looked smaller than the shadow she cast.
He rose, joints creaking, and went to the doorway. "It's not your fault," he said gently. "The Wheel of Heaven has never been kind to those who stand outside it."
Lian clenched her fists. "Then I should stay away from people. Forever."
"No." He shook his head. "If you hide, the world will never learn what stillness can heal. Balance isn't found in retreat."
She met his gaze, eyes glimmering wet. "Then what should I do?"
He sighed, the sound deep as the wind through old pines. "Learn to forgive what fears you."
He stepped into the night, lifting a single lantern from the windowsill. With practiced hands, he struck flint and coaxed the wick to life.
The flame flickered, small and uncertain, before steadying. Its light spread softly across the clearing, touching her face with gold.
"Humans send lanterns downriver to carry prayers away," he said. "But some lights should stay."
He set the lantern on the ground between them. "We'll keep this one here. Let it burn for the warmth you didn't find tonight."
Lian sank to her knees beside it. The light trembled on her sleeve, dancing against the silver threads woven through the cloth. For the first time, she didn't shy away from its touch.
The forest, sensing her stillness, began to hum again—small noises returning, the chirp of crickets, the flutter of a bat's wing. Even the air seemed to breathe easier.
Hui Yuan watched her in silence. When she finally looked up, eyes rimmed with tears but calm, he smiled faintly.
"See?" he said. "The world doesn't vanish when you shine a little."
The flame wavered once, then steadied again, mirroring her quiet heart.
That night, the lantern burned until dawn.When the first light touched the ridge, the fire went out—not extinguished, merely transformed into a single thread of smoke curling toward the heavens.
Far below, the villagers resumed their songs, their fear forgotten like last night's rain.
But in the forest, the silence had changed—no longer empty, but gentle, waiting.
And Heaven, for the first time in many years, listened not to prayers, but to the sound of a girl forgiving the world.