The air hung heavy in the Li household.
Smoke from a smoldering stick of incense coiled toward the rafters, its bitter aroma clinging to every surface. The scent of dried herbs lingered beneath it, mingled with something metallic—faint, but present. The hush in the room wasn't just silence. It was the kind that settled in when the world was about to change.
Li Yuan Tian, twelve years old and still small for his age, knelt beside the bed. His hands were tightly folded in his lap, knuckles pale. His dark hair framed his face, partially hiding the sharpness in his eyes. Not the dull confusion of youth, but the silence of someone learning how to carry pain.
On the bed, Li Long lay still, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. His once-steady form had withered with time and illness, the strength he'd quietly held now fading away. At his side, Wu Mei sat without moving, one hand resting lightly on his. Her touch was calm, but not cold. Her lips didn't tremble, though her eyes had long lost their shine.
"Yuan Tian," Li Long rasped. His voice was dry, faint, barely more than a whisper. "Come here, boy."
Yuan Tian leaned in.
"There are three things I must tell you," the man said, each word a struggle. "You must… not forget."
He placed something into his son's hand—a small, rusted token, round and dull, its edges worn with age. The symbols etched on its surface were faint, barely legible, and the center had cracked in places. It looked like a trinket, a relic from an age gone by.
But the moment Yuan Tian's fingers closed around it, the world seemed to quiet. Not in sound—but in presence. As though the room itself held its breath.
Li Long's gaze lingered. "This… belonged to someone who once walked far. When the time comes, you may hear echoes. If you do… listen. But only when all else is still."
Yuan Tian looked down at it, puzzled. "Is it… a key?"
Li Long's eyes dimmed. "A reminder."
Beside him, Wu Mei finally spoke. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, like a lullaby long forgotten. "Every seed carries memory. Even if buried… it remembers the sky."
Yuan Tian didn't understand, but didn't ask. Some truths weren't meant for the present.
Li Long coughed—wet and deep. A trace of red stained the edge of his lips. "Second… the world you see… it isn't all. Sometimes, truth hides behind dust, or under footsteps. It doesn't shine. It waits."
The boy's heart pounded in his chest. His throat ached.
Li Long forced a breath. "Last… You must be sharp. The world does not wait for kind hearts. Be still when needed. Strike when you must. And if… ever… you find someone worth the risk… protect them."
A slow, thin smile formed on his cracked lips. "But only one."
Then his hand fell limp.
Wu Mei did not cry. She turned, cupped her son's cheeks with trembling hands.
"I had hoped… to teach you gentleness," she whispered, her eyes filled with things no child could read. "But we give what we have left."
She leaned in, kissed his forehead.
"Live. When the world breaks you, let it. Then stand again. Piece by piece. Stone by stone."
She lay down beside her husband. Minutes passed, then more. Her breathing slowed. Faded.
The house fell into silence.
Li Yuan Tian stood there, unmoving, the token still clenched in his small hand. The warmth in the room faded with each breath he did not take. Shadows shifted across the wooden walls.
No tears.
Just silence.
And within it—something else. Something buried, like a root beneath winter soil.