Mist lay heavy across the river's bend, curling low over the stones. The air was damp, tasting faintly of moss and cold water. Shen Qiyao paused at the edge, his pack secure against his back, patched shoes pressed firm into the soil.
Before him, Mount Wen rose in silence. Its lower slopes were veiled by drifting cloud, as though the mountain itself wished to keep its secrets hidden. The sound of rushing water filled the air, constant and steady, as if reminding him that once he crossed, there would be no turning back until the climb was done.
He stepped onto the first stone. It was slick, the current pushing against his balance, but he moved with care. One step, then another, until the far bank rose beneath his feet.
Behind him, the bamboo grove stretched quiet. Ahead, the mountain waited.
The path began as little more than a trail of soil pressed down by deer and goats. Roots wound through the earth like veins, slick with dew. His shoes sank slightly into mud, sucking at each step.
The air thickened with mist as he went higher. Drops gathered on his hair and lashes, his sleeves damp with it. The trees shifted from bamboo to alder, their trunks dark and smooth, leaves dripping water from the last night's rain.
The ground was uneven, stones jutting from the soil, hidden beneath weeds. Twice, Qiyao stumbled and caught himself against trunks, palms scraping rough bark. His breath grew shallow, his body warm beneath damp cloth.
Yet he did not pause long. He had learned that when one stops too often, doubt seeps in. So he pressed on, steady as the stream that sang somewhere above.
Hours passed. The slope steepened, rising sharply so that his thighs ached with each step. His pack dug into his shoulders, the straps damp from sweat and fog. The knife at his belt tapped faintly against his side, a small rhythm in the silence.
The sound of the stream grew clearer. He followed it as though it were a thread guiding him upward. At times he saw it glinting between rocks—a silver ribbon tumbling down. At other times, it vanished into mist, leaving only its steady voice in the air.
The higher he went, the colder the air became. His breath puffed faintly before him, disappearing into the fog. The smell of wet earth deepened into the sharpness of pine as the forest shifted. Needles scattered underfoot, softening his tread but hiding loose stones beneath.
Once, his foot slid on gravel, and he fell to one knee. The sting ran through him, sharp and immediate. He pressed his palm against the cold rock, head lowered, breath ragged for a moment. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up again. His expression remained calm, but a faint tightness lingered at his jaw.
The mountain would not yield easily. But he had not expected it to.
He rested beneath a stand of pines when the sun was already high, though the mist dimmed its light. Their needles whispered overhead, scattering droplets that clung to his skin like cool beads. He lowered his pack, drank deeply from his waterskin, and unwrapped a cloth packet of rice.
The grains were plain, but warm from the body of the pack. He chewed slowly, savoring each bite, not for taste but for the strength it gave. A strip of dried radish softened on his tongue, salt sharp against the blandness of rice.
As he ate, he looked outward. Through a gap in the fog, the valley below revealed itself—the fields and roofs of Zhuyin, tiny and faint, patched like fragments of memory. From here, it looked almost unreal, as though it belonged to another life.
He sat still a moment longer, letting the silence wrap around him. It was not the hollow silence of abandoned places, but a full silence, brimming with the weight of time.
Then, quietly, he rose and continued.
The trail narrowed to a ledge of stone, slick with moss where water dripped from above. He pressed one hand to the rock for balance, moving slowly, testing each step before committing to it. The stream roared just below, hidden by mist, its voice strong and relentless.
Mist thickened until it blurred even the nearest trees, beads of water collecting in his lashes. The world seemed pared down to breath, stone, and step.
And yet, in his mind, the lilies remained. He remembered the valley where he had first seen them, blooming pale beneath the moon when the flute had carried across the grove. He remembered their fragrance—sweet, subtle, and fleeting. That memory became a tether, pulling him upward.
By mid-afternoon, the forest thinned. Pines gave way to open slopes scattered with moss and stone. The mist did not fade—it clung more stubbornly here, rising in swirls from the rocks, curling around his legs as he walked.
And then he saw them.
At first, only a scatter of white dots against the dark green. Then, as the mist shifted, the slope revealed itself.
Lilies.
They carpeted the shaded hollow before him, blooming in clusters across damp moss, their bells heavy with dew. They glowed faintly in the mist, as though each petal held its own light. Dozens, hundreds, spread like stars fallen to earth.
Qiyao stopped where he stood.
For a long breath, he did not move, only looked.
His chest tightened—not with weariness, not with pain, but with something else. Something quieter, sharper, like the moment when silence breaks into music.
And then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile. Small, fleeting, yet real.
The first true smile in many weeks.
He stepped forward with care, his feet soft upon the moss. He did not wish to crush a single stem. Kneeling, he reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the petal of the nearest flower. It was cool beneath his touch, smooth as if shaped by water.
He drew the knife from his belt and cut the stem carefully, laying it into a cloth he had spread on the ground. Another, and another, each one placed gently, as though they were treasures.
The fragrance rose around him, light and pure. It clung to his sleeves, to his hair, seeped into his breath until it felt as though the mountain itself was breathing with him.
He gathered slowly, reverently. He did not take too many—only enough to fill the cloth he had prepared. The rest he left untouched, swaying faintly in the mountain wind, bells ringing silent music in the mist.
When the bundle was full, he lifted it carefully and pressed it to his chest. His eyes closed briefly, and his smile returned, faint but steady.
It was not only flowers he held. It was memory. Promise. A bridge waiting to be crossed.
The slope stretched still behind him, vast with white blossoms. He looked at it one last time, as if to carry the sight with him.
Then he bowed his head, a gesture of thanks—not to gods, not to spirits, but to the mountain itself.
Only then did he turn to begin the descent.
The lilies lay safe in his pack, the fragrance lingering like stars caught in mist.
For the first time since he had begun his wandering, Shen Qiyao felt as though something in the world had answered him.
The bundle of lilies rested safe against his chest, wrapped in cloth. Their fragrance clung faintly to his sleeves, a sweetness that lifted even the cold air of the mountain. For a long moment, Shen Qiyao had only stood there, gazing at the slope where hundreds of white bells swayed in mist.
But the path downward waited.
He shifted the pack onto his back, securing the flowers carefully inside, padding them with spare cloth to keep them from being crushed. Then, tightening the straps across his shoulders, he turned toward the trail.