The plum ravine looked exactly as dangerous as the old woman had implied.
The moment they stepped between the first two massive boulders that marked the entrance, sound changed.
Birdsong died.
Wind turned polite.
Even their footsteps felt muffled, like someone had laid invisible carpets along the narrow path.
Tall plum trees grew impossibly close together, branches woven into a living roof that let through only thin needles of afternoon light. The fruit still on the trees was strange—too dark, too perfect, almost black-purple. None of them had fallen. Not one.
Sùyīn walked with her sickle already in hand.
"Stay in the middle of the path," she said, voice low. "Don't touch the trunks. Don't eat anything that drops. And if you hear singing—don't answer."
Mei nodded. Her bare feet were already numb from the cold stone underfoot.
The hairpin had gone very quiet. Not dormant—more like it was holding its breath.
They walked for what felt like hours. The light never really changed. Time felt slippery here.
After the first bend the trees grew older. Thicker. Some of the trunks were so wide that four people couldn't link arms around them. Pale characters had been carved into the bark long ago. Most were too worn to read. A few still showed sharp edges:
Rest
Forget
Stay
Mei kept her eyes forward.
Eventually Sùyīn stopped.
Ahead of them the path split.
Left: narrow, descending, darker.
Right: wider, level, with faint lantern-lights flickering far in the distance—like someone had left festival lanterns hanging in the trees years ago and they still burned.
Sùyīn stared at both options for a long moment.
Then she muttered something very rude under her breath.
"Both are bad," she said. "Left is faster but the things that live in the low places don't like company. Right looks safer but those lanterns… they're not supposed to still be burning."
Mei touched the hairpin. For the first time since the fight with the bounty hunters, it answered.
A single, clear image bloomed behind her eyes:
A girl in white robes walking the right path.
Lanterns brightening as she approached.
Her steps slowing.
A soft, endless smile spreading across her face.
She never came back out.
The memory-vision ended with the girl sitting beneath the last lantern, head tilted, eyes calm and empty, waiting for someone who was never coming.
Mei exhaled through her teeth.
"Right path is worse," she said.
Sùyīn raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"The hairpin showed me. Someone took the right path. She's still sitting under the lanterns. Smiling."
Sùyīn looked at Mei for a long second.
Then she gave the tiniest, sharpest nod.
"Left it is."
They took the descending path.
The air grew colder. Thicker. It tasted like metal and wet stone.
After another half-hour of careful walking, the first voice came.
Soft.
Female.
Very young.
"…you're late…"
It floated from somewhere to their left, behind the trees.
Both girls froze.
The voice giggled—small, delighted.
"…I waited so long… don't be shy…"
Sùyīn's grip on the sickle went white-knuckled.
Mei felt the hairpin flare hot against her scalp.
Another voice—older, rougher, male this time—from the right.
"You smell like fresh grief. Come closer. I'll make it quick."
A third voice—laughing, overlapping the first two.
"Pretty hairpin. Looks heavy. Let me hold it for you."
They were circling now. Invisible. Moving with the trees.
Sùyīn whispered, barely a breath:
"Don't look at them. Don't answer. Keep walking."
They moved faster.
The voices multiplied.
Ten.
Twenty.
A whole choir of things that used to be people.
Some begged.
Some cursed.
Some just sighed the same disappointed little sound over and over.
Mei's heart was trying to climb out through her throat.
Then one voice cut through the rest—clear, calm, almost gentle.
It sounded like winter arriving early.
"Lin Mei."
Mei stumbled.
Sùyīn caught her elbow—hard.
"Don't," she hissed.
But the voice kept speaking—perfect, aristocratic, cold as new snow.
"You should have died that day. Why are you still walking?"
It wasn't a memory.
It wasn't the hairpin.
It was her.
Lán Xīuyīng.
Or something wearing her voice.
Mei's knees almost buckled.
The hairpin burned—angry, frantic—screaming inside her skull:
NOT REAL
NOT REAL
KEEP MOVING
Sùyīn dragged her forward.
The voice followed—never louder, never softer. Always exactly the same distance away.
"You think you can come back? You think I'll look at you twice?"
A soft, chilling laugh.
"I already sentenced you once, little traitor. Shall I do it again?"
Mei clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached.
Then—very quietly, mostly to herself—she answered.
"You already said my name."
Silence.
The other voices faltered. Stuttered. Like a record skipping.
The winter voice spoke again—lower. Dangerous.
"…What did you say?"
Mei lifted her chin. Kept walking.
"You said my name. Out loud. You never did that before."
A long, terrible pause.
Then the voice whispered—close enough that Mei felt breath on the back of her neck:
"You're going to regret reminding me."
The air turned solid.
The trees groaned.
And suddenly—silence.
Complete.
Absolute.
The kind of silence that means something just decided to stop playing.
Sùyīn exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for years.
Ahead, the path began to rise again.
Sunlight—real sunlight—pierced through the canopy in thin, painful spears.
They were almost out.
Mei's legs shook.
She looked at Sùyīn.
Sùyīn looked back—wide-eyed, a little pale, but alive.
Neither of them spoke until they stepped past the last twisted plum tree and the ravine finally spat them out onto normal dirt under a normal afternoon sky.
Only then did Mei whisper:
"She said my name."
Sùyīn gave a short, shaky laugh.
"Yeah. And you talked back to a ghost wearing her voice."
Mei touched the jade hairpin.
It was still hot.
Still angry.
But underneath the anger—
Satisfaction.
Like it had just won a very small, very vicious argument.
Mei smiled—tiny, unsteady, real.
"I think I'm going to do it again."
Sùyīn groaned.
"Of course you are."
They kept walking.
Behind them, the ghost forest exhaled once—long and tired—like something had finally stopped waiting.