The moon followed Mei Lin as she walked—high and silent above her, a witness to her quiet escape. The night air was cold, but her feet didn't stop.
She passed the sleeping outskirts of her hometown, crossed the wide river bridge by dawn, and still, she walked.
By the time the sun reached its peak, she realized she had already passed through two villages, each smaller and quieter than the last. Her legs trembled with fatigue, her sandals thin and frayed, but something inside her would not let her stop.
Not until the wind smelled of woodsmoke and pine. Not until the clamor of her past faded into the chirping of cicadas and rustling leaves.
It was late afternoon when she stumbled upon it—
A small, remote village tucked between two hills, nestled against the base of a low mountain. The road narrowed into a winding dirt path lined with wildflowers. The houses were made of wood and stone, simple but strong, with prayer charms fluttering gently from the eaves.
Children ran barefoot, chasing one another with laughter. A group of elders sat beneath a large willow tree, sipping tea and playing chess. Chickens clucked freely along the path. There was no perfume in the air here—only the earthy scent of tilled soil and warm bread.
It felt… untouched.
Mei Lin paused at the village edge, staring at the scene with cautious wonder.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
The voice startled her.
She turned to see a woman in her late forties approaching, wearing a faded blue tunic and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her eyes were kind but sharp with curiosity.
"No, I'm not," Mei Lin replied softly. "I was passing through… and I don't know where I'm going yet."
The woman tilted her head. "You alone?"
Mei Lin nodded.
A pause. Then, a small sigh.
"Well, come in. You look like you haven't eaten since yesterday." She gestured toward her home, a modest cottage with smoke trailing from the chimney. "My name's Aunt Lin. I make rice porridge with mountain yam. Come on."
Mei Lin hesitated, but hunger gnawed at her resolve.
She followed.
---
Aunt Lin's house was warm, filled with the scent of herbs and freshly cooked rice. Inside, a young boy of sixteen was splitting firewood outside the window, while a girl of eleven sorted dried mushrooms in a basket.
"My children," Aunt Lin said, nodding to them. "Jin and Rui. Their father passed during the winter two years ago. Fever."
Mei Lin bowed respectfully. "I'm sorry."
Aunt Lin waved her hand. "Everyone loses something. It's what we do after that matters."
She served Mei Lin a bowl of hot porridge and poured tea without asking for much else. When the food was gone and silence settled between them, Mei Lin finally asked:
"Do you think your village chief would allow me to stay?"
Aunt Lin studied her face for a moment. "You're running from something, aren't you?"
Mei Lin lowered her gaze. "I don't know if I'm running away or toward something. Maybe both."
The older woman didn't press. She simply stood, wiped her hands on her apron, and said, "Come. Let's go ask."
---
The village chief was an older man named Elder Yuan, his beard long and white, his cane carved from cedarwood. He listened quietly as Mei Lin bowed and explained her situation—not the details, just enough.
"I seek peace," she said. "A place to live quietly. I can work, and I won't trouble anyone."
Elder Yuan nodded. "We have no extra houses, I'm afraid. But if you find a place to make your own, we won't turn you away."
Aunt Lin placed a firm hand on Mei Lin's shoulder. "She can stay with me until something is settled."
And just like that, Mei Lin found herself with a roof over her head.
---
The days that followed were simple and strangely healing.
Jin helped her fetch water from the well. Little Rui showed her how to weave flower crowns. Aunt Lin taught her how to roast mountain herbs and patch up old quilts.
Mei Lin, in turn, helped sweep the yard, carried laundry to the river, and mended worn-out clothes. Her fingers, once trained for graceful movements and silent performances, grew familiar with calluses and dirt.
One morning, while wandering near the edge of the village, she found it.
An old, abandoned cottage perched near the base of the mountain. It was quiet, half-swallowed by wild grass and flowering vines. The wooden gate creaked when she opened it. A great tree—tall, ancient, with sprawling branches—stood watch at the entrance. Beneath it, a stone path led to a door hanging slightly off its hinges.
And yet… it felt right.
She could see herself here—sewing by the window, growing herbs by the porch, watching the sky change colors through the seasons.
She rushed back to Aunt Lin and told her about the house. Aunt Lin smiled.
"That place used to belong to a storyteller," she said. "He passed years ago. No one's touched it since."
Together, they visited Elder Yuan, who approved Mei Lin's request to claim it.
That afternoon, a few kind villagers gathered to help her clean and repair it. Jin carried fresh wood. Rui swept the corners. Aunt Lin scrubbed the windows, humming as she worked.
By nightfall, the roof was patched, the windows fitted, and the floor swept clean of leaves and dust.
It wasn't perfect—but it was hers.
---
The next day, Mei Lin stood before the house with a small basket of seeds and cuttings. Aunt Lin had gifted her a handful of vegetable sprouts and a few tools.
She began to dig.
She planted green onions near the porch, garlic beside the stone wall, and scattered flower seeds along the edge of the path. Behind the kitchen, she marked a small rectangle of land and tilled it slowly, carefully.
It was hard work.
Her hands blistered. Her sleeves dirtied. Her back ached by evening.
But for the first time in years, she felt alive.
---
As she sat beneath the tree outside her gate that evening, watching the lanterns flicker to life in the distant village below, her fingers brushed the wooden crane in her pocket.
She hadn't looked at it since she left.
And yet… she had brought it.
She told herself it didn't matter anymore. That she was free of him.
But when she closed her eyes, she still saw him — standing beneath the paper lantern, smoke curling past his lips, saying, "I didn't expect to remember your eyes."
She exhaled slowly.
She had come so far.
And yet, he still lingered — like the scent of a storm long gone, like a dream half-remembered, like a promise never truly made.