The path leading back to the village was narrow, worn smooth by use rather than care. The evening sun cast long shadows across the dry soil, and the fading light coated the world in a soft, muted gold. The wind carried the faint scent of grass and river mist as it brushed past.
Han Li walked with measured steps beside his Second Uncle. Their baskets were nearly empty, the small bundle of thin firewood hardly worth the effort of gathering. Neither spoke. Conversation in their village was never wasted on what didn't need saying.
Ahead, the outline of the village appeared—low rooftops, fenced fields, livestock pens, and the faint trails of smoke rising from chimneys. Nothing about it looked grand, yet it held a steady sense of familiarity.
Their home sat at the village's edge, close to the forest line where the land shifted from cultivated soil to wild undergrowth. The house was old and weathered, built with brick patched over the years and wooden beams darkened by time. Yet it stood firm, holding its place against wind, seasons, and whatever years brought.
To a stranger, it might seem fragile.
To Han Li, it was enough.
As they drew near, he slowed slightly and spoke softly.
"…Aunt."
At first, only silence answered. Then the wooden door eased open.
His aunt stepped out. Her sleeves were rolled up from kitchen work, and her hair was loosely tied. Fatigue clung to her posture, but her expression softened when she saw him.
"Li'er," she greeted, voice calm.
She held her arms open.
Han Li entered the embrace with no haste yet no reluctance. Her warmth was grounding, like returning from a long journey—even if he hadn't truly gone far.
"I made flatbread," she said quietly. "And there was a little meat today."
Meat was rare. The mention alone brought a faint tightening in Han Li's chest — not excitement, just awareness. The family guarded every resource carefully.
Second Uncle set the firewood aside and nodded to her, receiving a small nod in return.
Inside, the house was modest. A single oil lamp lit the room, casting soft yellow light across the table and the clay pot sitting at its center. Beside it, a woven basket was covered with cloth.
His aunt lifted the cloth.
Warm air escaped: freshly baked flatbread, slightly crisp at the edges, thicker than usual. When she removed the lid from the pot, the scent of broth, turnip, and faint traces of meat filled the space — humble, but comforting.
They sat at the table without ceremony.
Han Li took a piece of flatbread with both hands and began eating in small, steady bites. The stew was mostly broth, but the few shreds of meat added a deep, savory flavor. Second Uncle ate quietly, face unreadable as always. His aunt took the smallest portion.
No one rushed. No one spoke unnecessarily.
The silence within the small home felt steady — not heavy, not warm, simply lived-in.
When the meal ended, the oil lamp had burned lower. Han Li set his empty bowl down with quiet care. The dull ache of hunger that usually lingered beneath his ribs was gone, replaced with a simple, content stillness.
His aunt cleaned the bowls, moving with practiced rhythm. Second Uncle lay down on his bedding and closed his eyes, already worn from the day's work.
Han Li moved to his mat by the wall. The blanket was thin but clean, smelling faintly of dried grass. He settled onto it and let his body relax.
No dramatic thoughts filled his mind—only a quiet sense of direction.
Tomorrow would come, and he would meet it.
He closed his eyes and slept.
---
Morning
Pale sunlight filtered in through the shutters, marking the floor with thin lines of gold.
Han Li woke without needing to be called.
He folded the blanket neatly, tidied the mat, and stepped outside to wash. The well water was cold, drawn fresh that morning. The chill cleared the last remnants of sleep from his mind.
After washing, he gathered what he needed:
A reed-woven basket reinforced with bark
A length of rope, coiled neatly
An old axe, its handle smooth from years of hands
The forest was not a place children wandered into casually. It was where necessity sent them. Today, necessity was clear — dry firewood, and perhaps mushrooms or small herbs if luck allowed.
Before he reached the door, footsteps approached.
His aunt stood there, a shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders, morning quiet still clinging to her.
"You're going to the forest?" she asked.
Han Li nodded.
She paused before speaking again, weighing her words.
"Be cautious. Lately, the forest feels… different." Her tone was steady, but her eyes held a quiet warning. "Old Chen saw wolf tracks near the trees. And the birds— they don't sing as they used to, not deeper inside."
She adjusted the rope on his shoulder with a small, habit-formed motion.
"If something feels wrong," she continued, "leave it and return. There's no shame in caution."
Han Li held her gaze briefly, then nodded.
"I'll be careful."
"Come back before noon," she added. "The light changes deeper in the woods."
He stepped outside.
The village was stirring awake — roosters crowing, tools scraping, quiet conversation drifting across the morning air. Mist lingered low across the fields, softening the edges of everything.
Han Li passed a neighbor drawing water. The man acknowledged him with a brief nod. Han Li returned the gesture and continued.
Ahead, the forest waited — tall, layered, and still. The air grew cooler as he approached, the world shifting subtly from human space to untamed land.
He crossed the boundary — the last wooden fence — and stepped into the wild.
Immediately, the atmosphere changed.
Not dramatically — just a shift, subtle enough to notice. The usual morning birdsong seemed scattered, incomplete. The deeper rustling of wildlife felt distant.
Han Li paused, not out of fear but awareness. The air held a faint damp heaviness, carrying the scent of decay and wet leaves.
He adjusted his grip on the axe and walked forward.
Roots wove across the ground, leaves brushed his clothing, and the undergrowth thickened around him. Sunlight filtered through the treetops in broken patterns, creating shifting shadows along the forest floor.
He moved with practiced caution, stepping where the leaves lay dry and the ground held firm.
Occasionally, he stopped to gather fallen branches—testing for dryness, weight, and use. Only pieces that burned well were placed in his basket.
As he continued, small details began to surface:
A plant trampled recently.
Soil disturbed by something large.
Claw marks—not deep, but fresh—on a fallen log.
Not enough to alarm him.
But enough to keep him attentive.
The forest felt older today — not in appearance, but in presence. As if something unseen was simply watching, waiting.
Han Li climbed a small slope and paused at the top. The village was no longer visible. Only trees, endless and silent.
His expression remained calm.
He did not turn back.
Something about the quiet ahead drew him forward — not excitement, not curiosity — simply the quiet certainty that step by step, the path would change.
He adjusted the basket on his back and continued deeper into the forest, the sound of his footsteps absorbed into the vast green world around him.
The day had barely begun, yet somehow, without reason he could name…
It already felt different.