One petal fell.
It drifted down through still mountain air with the unhurried certainty of something that had been falling since before the mountain existed, spinning once on its way down before landing on the folded hands of the woman seated beneath the tree.
Then a second.
Then a third.
The plum blossoms fell in the deep silence of early morning, settling onto the silver-white hair and the dark outer robe of the figure seated at the base of the ancient tree. She sat with the stillness of stone, her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, her breathing so shallow and controlled it was nearly invisible. Around her, the mountain air carried the cold, clean scent of high altitude — the kind of pure, thin air that existed above cloud cover, where only the truly dedicated had any business being.
Her face was a study in contradictions.
