The first tree fell at dawn.
Not violently.
Not wastefully.
Luke stood in the forest above Wo Long, fingers resting on the bark of an old pine. He listened—to the way the wind passed through the needles, to the creak of the trunk, to the quiet agreement of the land.
"This one," he said softly.
The elders watched from a distance.
Luke marked the cut carefully, angled to respect the grain. Each strike of the axe was precise—no wasted strength, no hesitation. The tree came down cleanly, folding into the slope as if kneeling.
No splintering.
No protest.
The wood was not rushed.
Logs were trimmed by hand, bark stripped, planks split along natural lines. Luke stacked them to dry where sun and wind could pass evenly, turning them each morning.
Children were tasked with counting.
Elders with remembering which beams once stood where.
"This one supported the west wall," someone said.
"That plank was from before my birth."
Luke listened.
Memory was part of structure.
When the ancestral home opened its doors again, it was not the same space.
And yet—it was.
The central hall was cleared, beams reinforced, floors leveled just enough for steady steps without erasing age. Benches lined the walls, low and wide, easy for elders to rise from.
The yard outside was widened.
Stones were smoothed and set to form paths.
A shallow sandpit bordered with wood appeared for children.
Two old trees were left standing—intentionally—to cast long shadows in the evening.
Luke placed the tables himself.
So the sun would not glare.
So the wind would cool.
So voices could carry without shouting.
"Feels like before," Grandma Sun said, sitting slowly.
"But better," a child added, already running in circles.
Luke watched.
He adjusted a bench half a step.
The question of the date came last.
Villagers gathered beneath the banyan tree, voices overlapping.
"Next full moon."
"No, harvest comes first."
"Ancestor day."
Luke listened until the rhythm settled.
"The eighth day," he said finally. "After the rain."
They looked at him.
"It's when the beams will finish settling," he explained. "And the elders won't feel the cold."
No one argued.
The date was set.
That evening, Luke carved a simple plaque.
No names.
No donors.
No titles.
Just three characters, brushed carefully in black:
归所The Place to Return
He hung it above the door himself.
As the sun dipped behind the ridge, elders sat in the yard, children played, and someone brewed tea strong enough to smell across the stone.
Luke stood aside, hands dusty, heart steady.
The System stirred faintly.
World Interaction: PositiveUser Role: Builder
Luke dismissed it without looking.
Some things did not need to be recorded.
Wo Long breathed.
And its home—once forgotten—was open again.