Chapter 1: The Last Leaves
The wind carried a faint chill as it swept through Lianhua, scattering dry leaves across the narrow dirt path. Yùlíng stood at the edge of the village, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky was painted in dull shades of gray. The autumn sun was barely visible behind the thick clouds, and the trees around her had already shed most of their crimson and gold.
She reached out and caught a single leaf drifting down. It was fragile, trembling in her palm before slipping away. She watched it fall and disappear into the dirt, her breath catching in her throat.
"Yùlíng," a voice called softly behind her. It was Mòlián, her childhood friend, who approached with a cautious smile. "The elders are waiting. The village festival is about to start."
She nodded without turning. "I'll be there soon."
Mòlián hesitated, then added, "It's almost the end of autumn. Soon, everything will be gone."
Yùlíng looked down at her hands. She knew what he meant—how the season was fading, just like her own memories of the past. The festival was a reminder of happier days, but now it only echoed the emptiness she carried.
She turned away from him. Her footsteps were quiet as she made her way toward the old shrine at the center of the village. The villagers gathered there, lighting lanterns and preparing offerings for the spirits they believed watched over them.
As Yùlíng reached the shrine, she saw her reflection in the bronze mirror placed on the altar. Her eyes were hollow, tired beyond her years. The scars of loss and longing had become part of her, woven into her very being.
Suddenly, a soft rustling caught her attention. She looked up and saw a figure approaching from the edge of the forest—tall, cloaked in a dark coat, with hair that shimmered like the night sky. His steps were hesitant, as if unsure whether he belonged here.
Yùlíng's heart quickened. She had never seen him before.
He paused at the entrance of the village, eyes downcast, as if burdened by invisible weight. Without a word, he moved toward her, his gaze fixed on the ground.
"Are you new here?" Yùlíng asked softly.
He looked up, revealing eyes that seemed to hold a thousand stories. "Yes," he replied quietly. "My name is Zhēngfēng."
She nodded, feeling a strange pull in her chest. "I'm Yùlíng."
He offered a faint smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I didn't mean to intrude. I heard this was a quiet place."
"It is," she said, glancing toward the gathering crowd. "But it's also full of memories."
Zhēngfēng looked away, silence stretching between them. The wind around them was carrying a few more falling leaves.
Yùlíng wondered what brought him here—what shadows haunted the stranger who seemed so distant. But she didn't ask. Instead, she turned back toward the shrine, feeling the weight of the coming night settle over her like a shroud.