Dawn came slowly to Willow Creek.
Mist rolled down from the hills and settled across the fields, covering the broken ground near the burial hill. The cracks left by the night's battle had already begun to fade. Dirt slid inward, pebbles filled the gaps, and grass leaned back upright as if the land itself wished to forget what had happened.
But people could not forget so easily.
Villagers gathered in small groups at the base of the hill, speaking in hushed voices. Farmers, woodcutters, and even the elderly who rarely left their homes came to see the strange marks carved into the earth.
Ling Chen stood near the hut beside Ren Tianhe. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the suspended lantern fragments hanging in the air — the moment the world had stopped moving.
Old Yu poured water from a clay jug into a basin, pretending to focus on cleaning tools, but he kept glancing toward Ren Tianhe.
"Master Ren," one farmer finally asked nervously, "was it… thunder?"
Ren Tianhe smiled gently.
"The mountain winds sometimes clash during the night. Rocks split. Sound travels."
The explanation was simple — and that was exactly why the villagers accepted it. Willow Creek was a place where complicated answers were unwelcome. Life was hard enough without mysterious fears.
Soon the crowd began to thin.
Ling Chen watched silently.
Then he felt it.
Not danger. Not pressure.
Attention.
He turned.
Near the village well stood a small child, half-hidden behind an older woman's robes. The boy was thin, no older than six or seven, wearing patched clothes and holding a wooden toy wheel tied to a string.
Unlike the other villagers, he was not frightened.
He was staring directly at Ling Chen.
Not curious.
Not scared.
Focused.
Ling Chen frowned slightly. He had seen most village children grow up — he knew their personalities. But this boy did not look at him like the others did.
Normally children avoided him because he lived among graves.
This one didn't.
He stepped forward slightly, trying to see better.
The child did not look away.
For a moment Ling Chen felt something strange — a feeling similar to when he touched the nameless tomb. Recognition without memory.
It made no sense.
Ling Chen raised his hand slightly in greeting.
The boy blinked once.
Then a woman's voice called from behind.
"Yuan'er! Come here!"
The boy turned and ran to her immediately.
Ling Chen opened his mouth to ask his name, but the moment passed too quickly. The woman took the child's hand and walked away toward the village houses.
He never learned who the boy was.
But the feeling lingered.
Ren Tianhe had been watching.
"You felt it too," the old cultivator said quietly.
Ling Chen looked up. "What was that?"
Ren Tianhe did not answer immediately. His eyes followed the direction the boy had gone.
"…Some meetings," he said softly, "are not important because of the present."
Ling Chen frowned. "I don't understand."
Ren Tianhe smiled faintly.
"You will not. Not yet."
He looked toward the sky.
And though the sun had risen, his expression was thoughtful… almost cautious.
Because something small had just changed.
And neither of them knew how far into the future that moment would reach.