The two returned home. Exhausted, Lam Ngu gave a tired wave and quietly retreated to her room, falling asleep instantly.
Lam Pham did not rest. He took advantage of the quiet to go to the kitchen, gathering wood ash from the hearth and leftover rice husks from a sack. Then, he headed to the rooster coop to collect droppings—dry, low-odor, the kind his mother often used to fertilize the vegetables.
He mixed the ash, husks, and manure together in a tattered basket. Not daring to use a new tool, he chose an old, chipped spade—a discarded item that no one would notice.
Then, he returned to that other space.
The night was nearly over, but he was still in time. Gently, he spread a thin layer of the mixture over the rows where he had just sown the cabbage seeds. It wasn't thick, just enough to cover the earth in a pale grey coat—sufficient to retain moisture and nourish the sprouts without drowning the seeds.
When the work was done, he stood and watched for a moment. It was still silent. Still dark. But this time, the sense of desolation was gone.
This land was now being cared for.
At breakfast, the family gathered around a modest table. Lam Tuan—the father—ladled porridge for his daughter, his gaze lingering briefly on Lam Ngu's face.
She sat motionless, her eyes circled with faint dark rings, holding her chopsticks as if she were nodding off. Throughout the meal, she didn't say a word, a stark contrast to her usual mischievous self.
Lam Tuan remained silent, but he had taken note.
Yesterday, she hadn't left the house all day. She didn't run to the neighbors to play, nor did she go to the stream to pick vegetables... She just lingered in the yard, and then hurriedly locked her door at dusk.
Normally, she could never sit still for that long.
He intended to ask, but seeing Lam Pham glance at his sister—a look that was both worried and a clear signal to "stay quiet"—he refrained.
He only sighed softly and placed a piece of pickled melon in her bowl. "Eat up, so you have the strength to study your letters."
No one knew what he had seen. But he chose silence, believing that when the time was right, his children would tell him themselves.
Lam Pham told Lam Ngu to rest. She nodded, her eyes half-closed, and she fell fast asleep against her pillow before she could even take off her sandals.
He looked at her, his heart filled with both pity and worry.
He knew their father was suspicious. Not because he had seen anything supernatural, but because he knew his children too well. Lam Ngu was like a sparrow; she took flight in the morning and only returned at dusk. Yet yesterday, she had moped around the yard and then shut herself away, her face as exhausted as if she had been plowing fields all day.
Lam Pham realized then: they were still far too green.
Lam Ngu's behavior—whether born of excitement or enthusiasm—was far too unusual. For a day or two, people might assume she was "sick" or "had personal business." But if it continued, even the neighbors would notice. In a small village, a single curious glance is enough to shatter a secret.
He clenched his fists and sighed. From now on, we must act even more normal. His sister could not enter that space frequently. The irrigation and sowing would be his burden. Lam Ngu had to go back to running, jumping, arguing, and tattling... just like always.
Because the more silent you are, the easier it is to be suspected.
The more unusual you act, the faster you are exposed.
Lam Pham did not rush back to the barren land.
He knew that right now, the most important thing was not sowing more seeds, but making everything look as if nothing had changed.
Early in the morning, he put on his coat and conical hat, carrying a bamboo basket as he often did when gathering vegetables. But instead of going to the stream, he turned down a trail on the edge of the village, walking slowly among the thatched roofs still glistening with dew.
At the ancient banyan tree at the village entrance, a few old men sat over an earthen teapot, discussing how little rain had fallen this year and how the rice was late to bloom. One sighed:
"I heard that in the district, Taoists have come down from the mountains to search for 'spiritual veins.' I wonder if it has anything to do with last year's drought..."
Lam Pham paused slightly but didn't ask questions. He simply nodded a greeting and continued on.
Near the local market, an old woman selling herbal medicine was drying roots in the sun. Seeing him, she smiled kindly:
"The boy from the Lam family? You've looked pale lately—not eating or sleeping well? Dreaming of the 'White Shadow' again?"
He forced a smile and nodded to move past. But inside, his heart pounded. What is the "White Shadow"?
At the edge of the village, a buffalo boy was drawing talismans with a bamboo stick in the dirt, muttering incantations he had overheard from a village doctor. Seeing Lam Pham, he cheered:
"Brother Pham! Do you know if real cultivators use swords or seals?"
Lam Pham patted his head and smiled gently. "Real cultivators... I doubt anyone ever sees them."
But in his heart, he understood: cultivators were not some distant myth. They existed silently, discreetly, with their own rules. The villagers knew of them, but didn't speak of them much. It was as if they were a part of heaven and earth—like the rain or the wind—real, but something you should not try to grasp.
By the time he returned home, he had his answer:
He had to slow down. He had to blend into this rhythm of life to keep the secret safe.
Exhausted after two sleepless nights, Lam Pham collapsed onto his bed as soon as the sun rose high. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
During his slumber, the bronze bracelet on his left wrist grew warm.
From the center of the fourteen-pointed star, a tiny speck of light, small as a dewdrop, flashed and then went out. No one saw it but him. Even in his sleep, Lam Pham felt it: the second spirit bird had opened its eyes. Just a tiny slit, like the eyelids of an exhausted person fluttering open for a moment before closing again.
He woke up at noon, his heart restless for reasons he couldn't explain. He lifted his hand to look at the bracelet, which was as silent as ever. But his intuition told him: something had changed.
Without hesitation, he entered that other space.
The moment he set foot there, he saw it.
Amidst the dark brown soil, a bright green sprout had poked through, barely a knuckle high. Its two cotyledons were still curled, but it was clearly a cabbage plant.
Lam Pham knelt, his eyes pressed close to the earth. The sprouts were growing evenly and straight, not yellowed at all despite only one night passing. Outside, in that same amount of time, the seeds wouldn't have even finished soaking up water.
His heart raced.
If one night equaled two days of growth... then very soon, he would be able to harvest the first crop of cabbage.
But he wasn't thinking about the harvest. Only one question echoed in his mind:
When the second spirit bird opens its eyes completely... what will happen?
Would the sun and moon in the sky grow brighter?
Would time inside move three or four times faster?
Or... would this land begin to generate its own water, sustaining itself?
He didn't know. But he knew one thing for certain:
This was only the beginning. There was an entire growing season ahead.