The last days of midsummer were kind to Heaven's Ridge.Evening light poured through the forest like honey, coating the moss and ferns in gold. The air smelled of wild plum and mountain rain, dragonflies hovered above the spring, their wings catching sunlight like shards of glass.
Yin Lian sat outside the hut, weaving thin stalks of reed into little rings. Each one would later dry into the round frames Hui Yuan used for his talismans. She worked slowly, careful not to bruise the tender green.
When the wind shifted, it carried laughter. Faint, distant, human.
She lifted her head. The sound came from the valley below, where the forest thinned into farmland and the small river village lay. Bells tinkled. Someone beat a drum in a rhythm that felt like running feet.
"Master," she called, "do you hear that?"
From within the hut came the familiar rasp of Hui Yuan's voice. "The villagers again. It's the Festival of Balance."
"Festival?"
He stepped out, sleeves rolled high, carrying a clay pot of water to pour over the doorstep. "Midsummer. When mortals thank Heaven for keeping the Five Elements in harmony. They'll hang colored ribbons for each current—green for Wood, red for Fire, yellow for Earth, white for Metal, blue for Water."
His eyes softened as he looked toward the distant smoke rising from the valley. "It's been long since I've seen lanterns by the river."
"What do they do there?"
"They eat, drink, sing, and pretend all is well." He smiled faintly. "Mortals need noise to remember they're alive."
She considered this, gaze drifting to the line of horizon glowing orange. "Does Heaven listen to them?"
"Perhaps," he said. "But Heaven listens more when hearts are still."
She fell quiet, letting the wind fill the space his words left behind. It carried faint music—the slow rhythm of drums, the lilting notes of flutes. Even the forest seemed to sway to it, leaves shivering like dancers' sleeves.
That night, the world felt wider than usual.
Lian knelt beside the spirit spring, watching fireflies pulse across its surface. Her reflection shimmered faintly—colorless, blurred at the edges. She whispered, "If the Five celebrate, does the Sixth watch from the shadows?"
The water did not answer, but somewhere a frog croaked, as if laughing softly at her question.
When she returned to the hut, Hui Yuan was mending an old robe by lamplight. "Master," she said, "what does balance look like?"
He chuckled. "Look around you. This forest, this night—all balance."
"I mean…" she hesitated. "How do you celebrate it?"
He paused, eyes distant. "When I was young, I joined the festival every year. We'd carve lotus lanterns from rice paper and set them afloat on the river. Some were prayers for harvest, some for love, some for forgiveness. I never knew which reached Heaven."
Her eyes shone, the lamplight caught in them like stars. "I think I'd like to see it."
"Then go," he said simply.
She blinked. "Truly?"
"The Dao forbids arrogance, not curiosity." He smiled, half weary, half indulgent. "Besides, even Heaven must enjoy being looked at once in a while."
He said nothing more when she wrapped her gray cloak about her shoulders and slipped into the dark. He only murmured to the quiet room, "Let her see the light, before the world teaches her its shadow."
The path down the ridge was steep, littered with fallen petals from the mountain pear trees. Lantern glow touched the low clouds ahead—gold and scarlet reflections dancing like embers. The closer she came, the warmer the air smelled: roasted chestnuts, steamed dumplings, plum wine.
At the edge of the forest, she stopped.
The village spread along the riverbank, every rooftop dressed in color. Lanterns swayed from bamboo poles, their red silk trembling in the wind. Children chased each other between stalls, women's laughter mingled with the clack of dice and the sing-song calls of merchants.
It was the first time she had seen so many people together.
She stood half-hidden among the trees, the shadows clinging to her robe. Her heart thumped softly, curious and shy. The world she watched looked alive in a way her forest never could—messy, bright, full of motion.
A group of children ran past carrying tiny lanterns shaped like fishes. Behind them, a young couple released a paper lotus into the water. The current carried it downstream, joining hundreds more—a floating river of light beneath the moon.
Lian clasped her hands. "So many stars," she whispered. "They've fallen into the river."
She lingered for a long time, drinking in every color, every sound. Her silence made the noise seem even more vivid.
She wanted to step closer, but hesitation pinned her feet. She remembered Hui Yuan's words—Mortals fear what does not fit their pattern. Yet how could laughter fear silence?
Her fingers tightened around a small paper lotus she had made that afternoon. It was plain white, tied with a single straw thread. Not beautiful, but hers.
Maybe if she let it float with theirs, Heaven would see that she meant no harm.
The thought made her smile.
She moved nearer the water, careful to keep behind the last row of willows. The river's surface shimmered with gold reflections, each lantern rocked gently, carrying a secret prayer into the current.
A little boy, chasing his floating light, slipped and laughed. His mother caught him by the arm, scolding gently before joining his laughter.
Lian's chest ached. The sound was strange—soft and warm, something she could almost touch but not keep. She wondered if laughter could be borrowed like warmth from a fire.
She crouched near the riverbank and touched the water. It felt alive, humming faintly beneath her fingers. For once, it didn't still under her touch, it flowed past, indifferent, full of life. She smiled at that too.
Somewhere above the crowd, a gong sounded, deep and resonant. The villagers cheered, throwing handfuls of flower petals into the air. Colors rained down—red and yellow, green and pink—turning the air into a storm of blossoms.
The sight made her breath catch. "It's beautiful," she murmured, "like the world remembering itself."
She rose slowly, ready to place her lotus among the others. For a heartbeat, she imagined herself walking into that sea of lanterns, letting light touch her face like everyone else.
She took one small step out of the trees—
—and a child turned.