Lí Zhì woke before dawn, long before the village roosters began to stir.
He didn't know why, only that something had pulled him from sleep as sharply as a hand on his shoulder. A dull pulse of warmth hummed beneath his ribs, fading as quickly as it came.
He sat up in the small sleeping loft he shared with his grandfather. The old man snored softly below, the sound steady and reassuring, like an anchor to the ordinary world. Nothing seemed out of place. The house beams creaked, the cold morning wind brushed against the shutters, and the faint smell of rice porridge drifted from last night's pot.
Everything was normal.
But the sky wasn't.
Lí Zhì pushed open the window. Pale blue light spread across the horizon, but a thin, silvery crack hovered far above the mountains, like a scratch across glass. It was faint, almost imaginary. Anyone else would have dismissed it as a cloud.
But he felt it.
A silent tug. A chilling whisper. A warning… or a call.
He blinked, and the crack vanished.
"Probably not enough sleep," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
He dressed quickly and tiptoed past his grandfather, who was still snoring through the blanket draped over his face. Outside, the early morning frost crunched softly under his boots. Farmers were beginning to gather tools. Smoke curled from chimneys. A few children chased each other between the houses, their laughter floating through the cold air.
Life carried on.
Yet Lí Zhì couldn't shake the weight in his chest—the sense that something was changing, and the world just hadn't noticed yet.
He headed toward the river, hoping the quiet would clear his thoughts.
As he reached the bank, he noticed someone already there: Old Liu, the fisherman. The man's boat rested half in the water, half on the sand. Old Liu stood frozen, staring intently at the surface of the river.
"Morning, Uncle Liu," Lí Zhì called out. "You're up early."
No response.
Lí Zhì stepped closer. "Uncle Liu?"
The fisherman finally turned. His expression looked wrong—not fearful, not angry, but hollow, as if the space behind his eyes had been swept clean.
"It doesn't remember its own name," Old Liu said softly, his gaze drifting back to the water.
Lí Zhì frowned. "What?"
"You should leave."
A chill crawled down Lí Zhì's spine.
The fisherman opened his mouth, but whatever he wanted to say slipped away. He blinked in confusion, rubbed his temples, then whispered:
"I… I can't remember why I'm here."
Lí Zhì had never seen the old man look lost. Old Liu remembered everything—weather patterns, fish migrations, the birthdays of half the village.
But now his face looked pale, as though something important had been taken from him.
"Let me get my grandfather," Lí Zhì said. "Just wait—"
Before he could finish, a faint shadow moved across the water's surface, too quick to identify. The morning air thickened, and the pulse in Lí Zhì's chest returned—stronger this time.
Old Liu stumbled back from the riverbank.
"No…" he whispered. "Not again…"
"Again?" Lí Zhì stepped closer. "What's happening?"
The fisherman turned away, shaking his head. "Forget it, boy. Forget you saw anything."
Lí Zhì opened his mouth to argue—but the shadow on the water was already gone. The river looked normal. Too normal.
"Please," Old Liu said, voice cracking. "Just go home. Pretend today is the same as yesterday."
But Lí Zhì knew it wasn't.
The sky had cracked.
The river had forgotten.
And something in him had woken.
As he walked back toward the village, the pulse inside him throbbed once—like a heart that wasn't entirely his own. The world felt dimmer, as if a thin layer of dust had settled over its colors.
And somewhere, far beyond mortal sight, a creature of shadow lifted its head…and smiled.