[Tuan's POV]
I don't remember any warm memories of my parents, nor do I possess any fragments of their faces or voices. The only constant in my life has been this place—a place I've called home since my earliest days, where I've fostered a bond with the earth and the trees surrounding me. My most vivid recollection is of Madam Song, the kind woman who celebrated my 10th birthday in her gentle way. That day, she gifted me a bowl of steaming Longevity Noodles—an annual tradition filled with warmth and delight.
The noodles were long and silk-like, their endless lengths coiling and twisting within the bowl, almost as if they were alive. Each strand seemed to beckon me to slurp them eagerly, and I dove in, creating a delicious symphony of sounds as I inhaled the warm, fragrant broth. It filled my nostrils with the subtle aromas of simmered vegetables and a hint of something savory that lingered in the air. The noodles were simple yet comforting, glistening in a delicate, golden broth that felt like a gentle embrace. Despite their modest flavor, they left me feeling full and content, much like the warmth of Madam Song's smile.
Madam Song had a mischievous glint in her eyes when she handed me the bowl, whispering that this special treat was to be eaten in secret, a little bond just between us. This made the moment feel even more precious. With the bowl cradled in my hands, I made my way to my hidden sanctuary, a cozy little nook nestled within the trunk of an ancient tree in the rugged, serene Kang Mountains.
I found my secret spot and settled down, enjoying the spectacle of slurping noodles in the stillness of the world around me. But as I sought comfort in my private feast, the tranquility was disrupted by the gentle sound of a girl weeping. The sorrowful cries grew louder, wrapping around me and pulling at my heart with each delicate note of distress.
I froze, the noodles momentarily forgotten, and now seeking refuge within the wooden food box that Madam Song had left behind. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of curiosity and concern as I strained to listen to the source of the sadness. The weeping continued, delicate and insistent, until it halted just before the bush that concealed the entrance to my hideout.
"Big-d t-sister, where are you? Little Mei is t-scared..." the soft voice whimpered, each word dripping with innocence and fear.
This touch of vulnerability tugged at my heartstrings, igniting a blend of empathy and protectiveness that I couldn't shake off. Hesitantly, I parted the leafy branches, peeking out to see the source of the sorrow that had captured my attention. To my astonishment, she was so close—only a few feet away. If she had taken even a few more steps, she would have stumbled into my secret world, oblivious to my presence.
The little girl stood with her back to me, seemingly around four years old. Her glossy black hair was fashionably arranged into two playful buns, each fastened with pristine white ribbons that flitted gently in the breeze. She wore a light pink hanfu dress that cascaded gracefully to her ankles, decorated with intricate floral patterns, hinting at the kind of elegance usually reserved for members of a wealthy family. The silk fabric shimmered softly in the sunlight, its luxurious texture contrasting with the rugged earth around us.
Transfixed, I couldn't help but step out from my hidden spot, drawn to her like a magnet. As I approached, she turned and our gazes locked. I was momentarily stunned by the beauty of her large, doe-like deep brown eyes. They resembled polished onyx gems filled with wonder, but in that moment, they were streaked with tears, flowing down her cherubic cheeks like tiny waterfalls, leaving shining trails in the light. Her skin was as pale as freshly pressed tofu—so smooth and delicate that I felt an overwhelming urge to reach out, to comfort her and wipe away her tears.
As she looked at me, her big, doe-like eyes filled with tears that began to cascade down her cheeks. The fear etching itself onto her delicate features only intensified her sobs, which grew louder and more desperate.
"It's okay," I said frantically, my voice trembling as I tried to calm her down. I reached out, moving closer to offer her some comfort, but in her panic, she stumbled backward and fell onto her bottom with a soft thud. Her cries escalated, a mix of fright and confusion, as she gazed up at me, her tear-streaked face pleading for reassurance.
I huffed in frustration, my mind racing through various ways to console this adorable crybaby. The rustling leaves were suddenly pierced by the low, menacing growl of a bear. I whipped my head to the far right and caught sight of a black bear charging toward us through the trees, powerful and frightening.
Then came a ferocious roar that resonated through the dense forest, a sound filled with primal anger and power. The bear, massive and imposing, seemed determined to break into my little hideout, its dark eyes filled with an unsettling intensity. As it huffed in frustration, paws slashing at the damp earth, it felt as if some invisible barrier were holding it back. I could hear the heavy sound of its footsteps thundering against the forest floor, the scratching of its claws sending small twigs and leaves flying just a few feet away from us. Suddenly, the bear emitted a soul-wrenching scream that echoed through the trees, a sound of pain as if it had been pierced by an unseen weapon. In a frantic rush, it turned and bolted into the underbrush, heavy footfalls fading slowly into the distance. A wave of relief surged through me, washing away the tension that had gripped my chest. It was clear now that the threat had retreated, not likely to pursue us any further. I exhaled slowly, the sharp rush of adrenaline still pulsing through my veins, making my heart race and my hands shake. After a few moments of silence enveloped us, I turned to her, expecting to find her still in tears. To my surprise, she was completely silent, her expression calm, and—of all things—enjoying the noodles I had been savoring just moments ago. It was a peculiar scene, the stark contrast between the lingering tension of our encounter and her unexpected calm as she slurped the noodles, seemingly unfazed by the chaos we had just endured.
My heart swelled with relief and affection as I watched her eat, her small frame completely unfazed by the earlier chaos. I sat across from her, allowing myself to relax as I observed her little noodle-eating ceremony.
"Does it taste good?" I asked, a smile creeping onto my face as I swallowed down my nervousness. I watched her slurp up the noodles with enthusiasm, her focus entirely on her bowl instead of me.
Silence filled the air, thick with unspoken words. She didn't even glance my way, completely absorbed in her meal.
"It's my birthday today; that was my birthday noodle," I mentioned, trying to spark a connection. "But if you're hungry, don't worry; eat it all. I don't mind sharing."
She paused her slurping, seemingly contemplating my words, and then, to my surprise, she looked at me with wide eyes and handed me the almost-empty bowl.
"It's okay; you eat it; I give it to you," I encouraged her, my heart warm at her gesture.
At first glance, if one weren't paying close attention, she appeared to eat like a scrappy child who had been starved, shoving food into her mouth in a frenzied manner, worried that someone might snatch it away. But upon closer observation, not a single drop of broth or noodle had spilled onto her lap or face; she was surprisingly graceful and tidy for such a chaotic moment.
"My name is Tuan," I said carefully, a gentle smile on my lips. "What's your name?"
She met my gaze for a fleeting moment, then diverted her attention back to her bowl, resuming her meal.
"Okay… is she mute?" I wondered to myself, puzzled by her silence. "At least I did a good deed by saving her and feeding her." I smiled, feeling a flicker of warmth at the thought.
When she finally finished and drank the last drop of soup from the bowl, she put it inside the wooden food box and sat back down, bowing slightly to me with an almost reverent air and whispering a quiet "thank you." I learned her name was Mei, and her story tugged at my heart; she had lost her maid, who she calls 'big sister', in the depths of the woods, and now she couldn't find her.
Madam Song returned shortly after to collect the wooden food box. To my surprise, she stumbled upon Little Mei and me in my hidden spot behind the large bush. I quickly explained how I had met Little Mei, sharing the strange and mysterious way in which the bear had retreated into the forest, leaving us unharmed. Madam Song listened intently, her expression shifting from concern to curiosity.
After I finished my story, she nodded thoughtfully and announced her decision to take Little Mei to the guild. A wave of emotions washed over me—I felt an unexpected mixture of relief for Mei's safety and sadness at the thought of her leaving. As Madam Song led Mei away, she gently explained that they were going to meet the Grandmaster, a figure of great importance at the guild who would determine Mei's future.
Time seemed to crawl until Mei returned. When she finally arrived, her face radiated with excitement. Madam Song met us with a smile, revealing that Little Mei had been officially initiated into the guild.
From that day on, she became a constant presence in my life, following me around and affectionately calling me "Big Brother Tuan." Our bond deepened; whenever she struggled with her lessons, she would seek me out for help. If she faced bullying, I was the first person she turned to for support. When she felt down, she confided in me so I could lift her spirits. And when joy filled her heart, she shared her happiness as if it was a gift meant only for me.
As we grew older, our relationship flourished, filled with countless secret moments, clandestine hangouts, and late-night conversations where we shared our dreams, fears, and everything in between. She blossomed into a breathtaking young woman, but everything changed after that one mission. When she faced near-death and emerged from her coma, it was as if a veil had been drawn between us. The bond we once shared faded, and she could no longer remember me. I was no longer her everything.