The turn of the year carried its own rhythm in Qinghe Village. Days shortened, frost clung to the thatched roofs like silver paint, and the villagers' breaths smoked in the air as they worked. Yet in the heart of winter, warmth arrived not through the sun, but through people — through the rituals that bound them together.
It was the day of the Laba Festival.
At first light, families stepped into courtyards swept clean the night before. Women in layered cotton robes bustled between kitchens, their sleeves tucked at the waist. Pots clanged, water boiled, the scent of soaked beans and polished rice rising with the mist. Even before incense was lit, the fragrance of food itself became an offering to the ancestors.
Children hopped barefoot on cold earth, clutching bowls almost too big for their hands. They scattered like sparrows, delivering porridge to relatives and neighbors. Elders, sitting cross-legged near shrines, accepted each steaming bowl with murmured blessings, chopsticks tapping gently against porcelain.
The village square soon bloomed red and gold with paper charms and ribbons. Songs rose in the air, men striking clappers, women weaving hymns into melody, their voices rising toward heaven as if tugging spring closer.
The entire village was alive — one woven fabric.
Except for the hut that stood at the village's edge, half embraced by the shadow of the Cangyun Mountains.
Li Rong crouched by the hearth in his one-room dwelling, coaxing flame from damp firewood. His hut was simple: brick and mud walls, reed patched gaps where the wind slipped in, and a low roof that groaned under frost. Beside it stretched a narrow strip of earth he had claimed as his own. A fence of rough branches marked the border, and inside grew hardy vegetables: cabbage with wrinkled leaves, turnips fat beneath the soil, scallions standing tall even in winter's bite. It was no rich farmland, but it was enough to keep him alive.
This morning, he had pulled a few withered turnip greens, chopped them fine, and tossed them into his clay pot with millet and beans saved from autumn. The porridge that bubbled was coarse, golden, and plain — nothing like the villagers' fragrant bowls jeweled with peanuts and dried fruits. But to him, it was rich in its own way, the taste of survival wrestled from stubborn soil.
When it was ready, he ladled half into a cracked bowl and carried it outside.
By the doorway, he set the bowl before a flat stone he had chosen months ago. In his inherited memories, the original body had done this every year — forbidden from joining the square, told his unlucky shadow would spoil the ancestors' blessing. So he made his offering instead to nameless mountain spirits.
Steam curled from the humble porridge, warm and fragile in the winter air. Li Rong pressed his palms together, bowing once. His lips curved faintly, bittersweet. I marched with banners once, shouting for a place in the world. Now, I bow to stone and sky. Strange — and yet, no less honest.
He sat on the threshold, the cold bricks biting beneath him, sipping the porridge that remained. It was coarse, filling, carrying the faint sweetness of beans and the bitter tang of greens. Each spoonful spread heat through his chest but could not soften the ache inside.
From the distance, he could hear laughter, clapping, and songs that did not belong to him. The inherited memory stirred again — blurred yet sharp where it mattered. The original owner had sat just like this, year after year, watching festival lights flicker against the night sky, his bowl untouched, his heart sinking deeper until it drowned in loneliness.
Li Rong exhaled slowly, fingers tightening on the bowl. But I am not him. I will not break in the same silence.
The sky above shifted, clouds bruised with violet as the sun began to fall. Suddenly, a hawk's cry ripped the air. Sharp, commanding, it drew his gaze instinctively to the ridge of the Cangyun Mountains.
And there, outlined against the winter horizon, stood a figure.
Tall. Cloaked in dark wool, the hem snapping like a banner in the wind. He was not bent like a farmer, nor hunched like a trader burdened by goods. His stance was straight, firm, carrying the sharpness of command even when standing still. For a fleeting moment, Li Rong thought the stranger's face turned toward the village, though it was too far to make out features.
The figure remained motionless, as if judging whether to approach — then, with a flick of his cloak, disappeared into the trees.
Li Rong's heart skipped, a drop of something unnameable falling into the still pool of his chest. Ripples spread, unsettling the quiet surface of his world.
He stared at the ridge long after the figure vanished, until the mountains darkened into silhouettes and the first firelight from the square glowed like falling stars in the valley. Drums beat, voices soared, and the scent of rich porridge traveled faintly on the breeze.
Yet on the outskirts, Li Rong sat between mountain and soil — not claimed by the village, not yet welcomed by fate. And though he was still alone, a shiver of certainty brushed his skin: the quiet boundary of his life had just cracked open.