The late afternoon sun slanted over Redhill's mud-packed paths, gilding the uneven ground with warm, honeyed light. The small town, cradled between rolling hills the color of baked clay, had earned its name from the reddish soil that stained the hands and boots of all who worked its land.
Its houses were simple but sturdy — frames of seasoned timber, walls pressed with clay, roofs thatched with straw or laid with rough wooden shingles. Their earthy colors blended with the land itself, giving the town the look of something that had grown here, rather than been built. Mud paths wound between these homes in crooked, well-worn trails, the air carrying the mingled scents of hearth smoke, drying herbs, and the faint sweetness of ripening grain.
Children's laughter rang out as they chased each other between doorways. A group of old men sat under the shade of a broad, gnarled tree, playing at dice and trading stories. Neighbors called across narrow alleys, discussing the day's work, the weather, and the gossip of the week.
Amid this life and noise, a man in his mid-twenties walked at an unhurried pace, his steps quiet against the soft-packed earth. A worn leather satchel hung from his shoulder, its strap darkened from years of use. His features were pleasant — a strong jaw, clear eyes, and a calm expression — sharp enough to be called handsome, but not remarkable enough to draw lingering stares.
What set him apart here was not his face, but his reputation.
"Doctor Liang!"
An elderly man, stooped and leaning heavily on a cane, called from the doorway of a modest home. His hair was white and sparse, his eyes bright despite the creases of age.
Liang stopped, stepping toward him. "Uncle Shen."
"That poultice you gave me," the old man said, a smile tugging at his lips, "worked wonders. My knee barely aches now, even in the evening."
Liang's own smile was small but genuine. "I'm glad to hear it. Keep up those stretches I showed you — and don't overdo it when you walk."
The old man chuckled. "Easier said than done."
Liang gave a polite nod and turned back to the street. He hadn't gone far before a woman carrying a woven basket of peaches intercepted him. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong, work-worn arms.
"Doctor Liang," she said warmly, "you saved my boy's arm when everyone else said it would have to be cut. Please, take these." She pulled two ripe peaches from her basket and pressed them into his hands before he could protest.
He accepted them with a nod of thanks. "Your son's strength did most of the work. I only guided it."
The woman's smile widened, and she moved on, calling a greeting to someone across the way.
Such exchanges had become common for Liang. The gratitude of Redhill's people was something he neither rejected nor grew proud of. He did his work quietly, and that was enough.
Ahead, the Lantern Inn came into view, its signboard painted with curling golden strokes that caught the last light of day. The building was the largest in Redhill, its walls freshly coated with clay and its roof lined with polished wooden tiles that shone faintly in the sunset. Warm lamplight spilled from its windows, and the mingled sounds of conversation, clinking cups, and the faint pluck of strings drifted into the street.
Two men in short-sleeved jackets stood by the door, their stances relaxed but watchful. One glanced at Liang's satchel as he approached.
"Evening, Doctor," the first guard said with a nod. "Here for the performance?"
"I am," Liang replied simply.
"Famous musician tonight," the second added, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. "They say he can stir your heart with just one note — make you remember things you thought you'd forgotten."
Liang's lips curved faintly, but he said nothing more.
Inside, the inn's air was thick with the warmth of many bodies, the scent of roasted meats, sweet wine, and the faint tang of burning oil from the lanterns. The noise inside was lively but not rowdy, a pleasant hum of conversation, laughter, and anticipation.
"Doctor Liang!"
The voice belonged to the inn's owner — a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and an even thicker apron, stained from the evening's work. He was wiping his hands on a cloth as he pushed through the crowd toward Liang.
"A good seat just opened by the window," the owner said, his tone carrying the satisfaction of a man delivering rare news. "You'll hear the music clear as day and have fresh air besides."
Liang inclined his head in thanks. "That would be ideal."
The owner led him through the crowd. The wooden floor creaked faintly underfoot, the boards smoothed by countless boots. Around them, townsfolk leaned in close over tables crowded with dishes and cups, their voices rising and falling in friendly chatter. Some spoke eagerly of the musician, others debated the harvest, while a few sat already lulled into silence by the faint, tuning strains drifting from the low platform at the far end of the room.
At the corner by an open window, the owner pulled out a sturdy chair. "Here you go. I'll send someone over with a drink. The music will start any moment now."
Liang set his satchel down beside him and took the seat. "A cup of your peach wine," he requested.
The owner's grin widened. "One of our best. I'll have it here before the first note."
Liang settled in, the cool evening air brushing against him through the open window. Outside, the last traces of sunset bled into the deepening blue of night, while lanterns along the street swayed gently in the breeze, their warm light flickering over the mud-packed path below.
Across the room, the musician sat cross-legged on the platform. His robe was plain, but the way he held his long-necked instrument — with an easy confidence, as though it were an extension of himself — drew every wandering eye. He plucked at the strings lightly, adjusting their pitch, the faint, tentative notes curling through the room like smoke.
The murmur of the crowd began to fade, one table at a time, as if the sound itself were drawing the noise out of them. Conversations trailed into silence. Cups were set down. Even the serving girls slowed their pace.
Liang leaned back slightly, his eyes half-lidded, letting the quiet settle around him. The musician raised his bow, holding it poised above the strings.
The peach wine arrived, its sweet fragrance mingling with the smell of wood and oil. Liang's fingers curled loosely around the cup, but he didn't drink. His gaze stayed on the musician, though in truth, his thoughts were far away.
It's been years, he thought, a weight pressing behind the calm of his eyes. Years since I left that place… Earth.
The first note had yet to be played, but already, the stillness in the inn felt heavy, charged. Outside, the night deepened, and the wind carried the faint creak of the inn's signboard swinging on its hinges.
Somewhere deep within him, past the steady mask he wore in this world, memories stirred — of city streets lit with neon, the hum of cars, the rush of voices speaking a language that no one here would understand.
But he didn't let them rise.
The bow dipped toward the strings.
And Liang's heart, long hidden in this quiet town, began to drift — away from Redhill, away from the warmth of the Lantern Inn, and back toward a world that was now nothing more than a memory.