The fields of Qinghe Town stretched like faded silk beneath the morning sun. To the west, water buffalo plodded through shallow paddies. To the east, the forest loomed—silent and ancient, the trees holding whispers older than memory.
On the third day of the second month, the town entered its season of stillness.
Spring Festival had passed, and the traders who came from the north had already begun their journey home. The streets quieted. Only the woodcarvers, blacksmiths, and herb pickers remained to carry the days forward.
For Yun Long, this was a season of small tasks — gathering dry moss from the tree trunks, collecting cracked herbs, mending firewood baskets. The world felt wide, yet also the same as ever.
That afternoon, the wind shifted.
A group of boys had gathered near the old well behind the shrine — a squat, weather-stained building where the townsfolk left offerings during the rain months. Yun Long had gone there only to return a borrowed water gourd.
He didn't expect to hear the tale again.
"—and then, just before dawn, the stone at the center glowed red," one of the boys whispered, crouched with wide eyes. "Old Lin says the earth shook. Says he saw it with his own eyes."
"Bah," another scoffed. "Old Lin drinks too much. Everyone knows the shrine hasn't lit up in fifty years."
"That's not true," said a third, his voice low. "My cousin said someone came last year. A man in green robes. Asked about the stone circle. Didn't stay long. Next day, a storm came, and a branch struck the shrine bell."
They all fell quiet.
Yun Long stood a few steps away, the gourd forgotten in his hand.
The stone circle. The one used for Stone-Stepping Day. A flat patch of moss-ringed stone west of town, where no grass grew in the center. Where children were tested. Where the shrine cast its long shadow once a year at dawn.
He had passed by it dozens of times. He had never seen it glow.
" is it even real?" one of the boys asked. "Think something's buried under it?"
"Of course not," the first boy muttered. "It's just old stone. Like everything else."
But the third boy shook his head. "My uncle said the circle used to be part of a sect. Long, long ago. Before even our grandfathers' time. Something about… dragon blood and fallen stars."
At that, a faint laugh came from behind them.
It was Old Granny Bai, bent and blind in one eye, leaning on her crooked cane. She had lived in Qinghe longer than anyone remembered.
"Dragon blood, is it?" she rasped. "Heh. Boys like you have too much breath and not enough brains. If such blood still walked the earth, it would not waste time in a town like this."
The children scattered in awkward silence, bowing hastily and mumbling apologies.
Only Yun Long remained, watching her.
She turned her good eye to him and snorted. "Still here, boy?"
"Yes, Granny."
"Good. Listen, then." She leaned closer, breath smelling faintly of dried peach pits. "All stories are seeds. Some never sprout. But some… Some take root where no one is looking."
She tapped her cane twice on the ground. "Best not to be caught beneath one when it cracks open."
Yun Long didn't understand. But he bowed politely.
That night, as the stars blinked slowly into view above Qinghe's rooftops, he lay on his mat and stared at the ceiling.
His parents had gone to sleep. The fire had long burned to coals.
But in his mind, a stone afterimage still glowed faintly red due to staring at the fire for long— Just warm enough to be remembered....till he dozed off.
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