Chen Wangtian followed Nian'an's finger. The bark of the old locust was rough and fissured. Deep within the cracks, darkness pooled. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the largest crack resembled a mouth curved into a smile. Not a kind smile—something knowing, something waiting.
The wind suddenly died. The leaves stopped rustling. The entire tree fell into an unnatural stillness. Chen Wangtian scooped up Nian'an and strode toward home. The boy slumped against his shoulder, yawned, and buried his face in his father's neck.
After a dozen steps, Chen Wangtian glanced back.
On that moss-covered rock lay a small sliver of something, catching the last rays of twilight with a faint pearlescent gleam. The size of a fingernail, curved like a tiny crescent moon.
He did not dare go back to retrieve it. But he knew exactly what it was. Nian'an's fingernail.
That night, Nian'an developed a low, persistent fever. Xiulan placed damp cloths on his forehead, changing one after another. Once, he woke briefly, looked at her, and called out "Ma," then closed his eyes again. Xiulan later told Chen Wangtian that in that instant, she saw something reflected in Nian'an's pupils. Not the candlelight. Not her own face.
The shape of a tree.
Chen Wangtian did not sleep. He sat on the doorstep, clutching the crushed candy wrapper. The face on the red paper seemed clearer in the moonlight—an old woman's face, wrinkles layered upon wrinkles, mouth curved, eyes hollow. He crumpled it and threw it into the stove. As the flames licked it, a faint sound emerged—not the crackle of burning paper, but something like a sigh.
The next morning, he carried Nian'an to Old Immortal Wu's house. He pushed open the creaking wooden door and stepped inside.
He did not know it then, but he had just walked into a nightmare that had begun fifty years ago.