Morning came too quietly. A pale mist hung low over the village, swallowing sound and softening the world. The fields stood damp and untouched, their golden stalks swaying gently as if mourning the departure yet to come.
Li Zhenyuan stood at the edge of their home, staring at the worn doorframe where he had carved a crooked bird as a child. Jian was tying down the last pack to their cart, his fingers careful and deliberate, while Hui silently adjusted the leather straps over his shoulder. None of them said much—not yet. Words felt too final.
Li Qingshan stood a few steps away, hands folded behind his back, the wind brushing against the edges of his faded cloak. His face was unreadable, but something about the way he looked at their home made it clear: he would not be coming back.
Footsteps approached on the gravel path. Elder Wei arrived with several villagers—familiar faces from years of quiet living. There was Granny Tao, who always gave Hui pickled radishes on New Year. Old Zhao the carpenter, who once built Jian a slingshot. Even Xiu'er, the weaver's daughter, was there, clutching a basket of dried plums.
They brought simple offerings: dried meat, travel cakes wrapped in cloth, a jug of water, a few herbs. But more than that, they brought something heavier—concern, affection, and uncertainty.
"You've always helped us, Qingshan," Elder Wei said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of years. "We won't ask why you're leaving… but this is your home. You know that, don't you?"
"You're like family," Granny Tao added, her old hands trembling slightly. "No matter where you go, you'll always have a place here."
"We worry," Old Zhao muttered. "Strange things have been happening near the southern woods. If you need help… if anything happens…"
Qingshan inclined his head, his voice quiet. "I thank you. And I will remember."
Xiu'er stepped forward, holding the basket tightly. "Take these," she said, cheeks flushed. "You helped my mother when she was sick. If… if you ever return, we'll be here. Waiting."
Even the children came—small faces peeking behind their parents. One boy ran forward, pressed a polished stone into Zhenyuan's hand, then darted back. It was smooth and round, warm from being held too long.
Zhenyuan clutched it tightly.
Jian tried to speak but couldn't. Hui gave a quiet bow.
The goodbyes were short, not because of coldness, but because none of them could bear to say more. The villagers stood and watched as the family turned their backs to the village road, the cart creaking over stones. A few waved. One called out softly, "Come back to us."
The mist swallowed them within minutes.
...The mist swallowed them within minutes.
They walked for hours in silence. The road narrowed, then crumbled into dry hills scattered with dying trees. Fields turned to rocky outcrops, and birdcalls grew rare.
Now and then, Zhenyuan glanced back—not toward the village, but toward the feeling it left behind: warmth, safety, laughter shared over soup, and scolding words from neighbors that never truly meant harm. He could almost hear Granny Tao fussing that his clothes were too thin or Old Zhao grumbling about "young backs and lazy hands."
Jian, perhaps sensing the same, muttered, "They really were too good to us."
"They were family," Hui said simply.
Li Qingshan didn't speak, but his grip on the cart's handle briefly tightened.
When the sun began to dip toward the west, Qingshan gestured for them to stop beside a narrow stream, half-hidden by wild grass. "Here," he said. "We camp tonight."
Later, as they prepared camp and gathered firewood, the atmosphere was heavier—not just from travel, but from absence. Yet Jian's muttering returned as he struggled with the fire, and Hui quietly passed him dry leaves without a word. Small habits born of their time in the village, still clinging.
Even in silence, there was a trace of comfort that hadn't left them entirely.
That night, when Zhenyuan lay staring up at the stars, the vastness of the sky did not feel entirely lonely. It felt like something waited, as if part of the village—its hope or its faith—still followed behind them like a shadow refusing to vanish.