The village of Willow Creek did not have walls.
It did not need them.
No army had ever marched this far, and no merchant caravan found profit in muddy roads and poor farmers. The land was thin, the winters long, and most people born there lived their entire lives without ever seeing another town.
The only place larger than a house was the burial hill.
It rose behind the village like a sleeping animal, covered with crooked tombstones and wind-bent grass. Children refused to play near it, and adults walked past quickly, speaking softer as they crossed its shadow.
Only one person lived there.
Ling Chen woke before dawn, as he always did.
Cold air seeped through the cracks of the wooden hut beside the graves. Frost clung to the inside of the window, turning the outside world into a pale blur. He sat up on his straw mat and listened.
The village was quiet.
But the hill never was.
He stepped outside carrying a small oil lamp and a brush. The eastern sky held only a thin gray line, and the stars were still fading reluctantly. Wind brushed the tall grass, making a soft sound like distant breathing.
Ling Chen walked between the tombstones.
"Good morning, Auntie Lian," he said, stopping beside a worn marker. "Your son came yesterday. He left flowers. He cried again, but only a little this time."
He knelt and brushed dirt from the stone.
"I think he's trying to be strong for his daughter."
He moved to the next grave.
"Uncle Wei, Old Yu says your field finally grew wheat this year. It took a long time, but it happened."
To anyone watching, he would look like a lonely boy talking to empty earth.
To Ling Chen, the hill was crowded.
He did not see ghosts.
He heard feelings.
They were faint, like echoes in a deep valley — not voices, but impressions. Warmth, regret, laughter, fear. Each grave held something that had not entirely faded. When he touched the stone, he could sense what lingered behind.
He had never questioned it.
He thought everyone could.
Ling Chen reached a newly buried mound near the edge of the hill. The soil was still dark and damp from yesterday's funeral — a young mother taken by winter fever. He set down the lamp and placed his hand gently on the wooden marker.
At first, nothing happened.
Then warmth flooded his chest.
Not his warmth.
A soft humming sensation filled his mind — a lullaby. He did not know the words, but he understood the emotion perfectly. Comfort. Protection. A promise that someone small would never be alone.
Ling Chen blinked.
Tears ran down his face before he realized he was crying.
He pulled his hand back quickly, breathing unevenly.
"I… I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty air.
The feeling faded slowly, dissolving like mist under sunlight.
He sat there for a long time.
The sky brightened. The village rooster crowed in the distance. Smoke rose from chimneys as people woke.
Ling Chen stood and picked up his lamp.
But as he turned to leave, he froze.
Someone was still there.
He felt it.
Not from the grave.
Not from the ground.
From behind him.
Ling Chen slowly looked back.
The burial hill was empty.
Wind passed through the grass.
Yet clearly — unmistakably — he heard a whisper beside his ear.
A voice not tied to any tombstone.
Soft.
Ancient.
Gentle.
"You came again."
Ling Chen spun around.
No one stood there.
Only the silent graves.
For the first time in his life, the hill felt unfamiliar.
And for the first time…
Ling Chen was afraid to listen.