Morning arrived without announcement.
The sky above Qingxi was pale, as if it had been washed too many times. Mist clung to the ground and to the banyan tree, softening its ancient roots until they resembled sleeping beasts. Xiao Lin woke beneath its shade, stiff and cold, having dozed there sometime before dawn.
He did not remember lying down.
The first thing he noticed was the water.
The well beside him reflected the sky, but its surface would not settle. Rings spread outward, slow and deliberate, though there was no wind and no fallen pebble. The ripples reached the stone edge and returned inward, folding back upon themselves.
Xiao Lin blinked.
He leaned closer, peering into the well as though it might answer him.
"You are awake too," he murmured.
The water stilled.
Behind him, a woman drawing water froze. Her bucket hovered just above the surface, trembling in her hands.
Xiao Lin straightened, embarrassed. "I was not speaking to you."
The woman swallowed. "Of course not."
She stepped back carefully, eyes lowered, as though retreating from a sleeping tiger.
By the time Xiao Lin sensed something was wrong, three people nearby were already whispering.
He rubbed his face, trying to wake fully. Sleep still clung to him, heavy and disorienting. Since the fever, mornings often felt like this, as if he had entered a room where a conversation was already underway.
He stood and stretched, joints popping softly.
"The ground is cold today," he said to no one in particular. "It has not decided to warm yet."
The words drifted into the mist.
Someone gasped.
Old Qian, passing with a basket of clay, halted as though struck. He stared at Xiao Lin with an expression caught between awe and fear.
"Even the earth's intent," he whispered.
Xiao Lin frowned. Had he said something wrong again.
He picked up the rope by the well and coiled it carefully. Today it behaved, lying flat and compliant.
As he worked, villagers gathered under the pretense of busyness. No one addressed him directly. Their gazes slid toward him and away again, like startled birds.
Shen Yue arrived with the morning sun, sleeves rolled up, hair loosely tied. A basket of herbs hung from her arm, leaves still damp with dew.
She stopped beside him and glanced at the well.
"Did you frighten the water again," she asked lightly.
Xiao Lin flushed. "I did not mean to."
"I know," she said, smiling.
She watched him for a moment, her expression sharp with curiosity.
"You sleep here now," she asked.
"I did not plan to," he said. "I think I was thinking, and then it became dark."
She laughed softly. "That sounds dangerous."
He nodded, entirely serious. "It is."
They stood together in silence.
Around them, the village hummed with careful attention. Someone whispered Shen Yue's name, then Xiao Lin's, and fell quiet again.
She rolled her eyes. "They are treating you like a shrine. Soon they will bring incense."
Xiao Lin looked alarmed. "I do not want that."
"I know," she said gently. "That is why it is funny."
He did not find it funny.
By midmorning, word had already traveled beyond Qingxi.
A mule cart arrived from a neighboring hamlet, driven by a lean man with weathered skin and watchful eyes. He unloaded sacks of grain near the square and listened as he worked.
He heard about the boy who survived a month long fever. About leaves and paths and restless water. About cultivators who bowed.
At first, he scoffed.
Then he saw Xiao Lin.
The boy was chopping wood near the banyan tree, movements careful and exact. Each strike landed true despite his slight frame. He paused often, not from fatigue, but as though listening.
The mule driver lingered.
At one point, Xiao Lin stopped and stared at a split log.
"This one wanted to be two for a long time," he said.
The driver's breath caught.
That evening, he told his wife.
Two days later, a monk passed through the region.
He was young, his head shaved, his robes faded by travel. He walked barefoot, staff tapping softly against the road. When he reached Qingxi, he paused.
The air felt unsettled.
He entered quietly, offering blessings for water. As he drank, his gaze wandered, drawn by something he could not name.
He found Xiao Lin seated by the riverbank, feet submerged, watching fish weave between stones.
The monk listened.
Xiao Lin spoke without turning.
"They do not flee the current," he said. "They let it carry them until it grows tired."
The monk nearly dropped his bowl.
He bowed deeply, forehead touching the ground.
"Senior," he whispered.
Xiao Lin startled, nearly slipping into the river. "I am not," he began.
"Naturally," the monk said, rising, eyes bright.
That night, the monk lit incense at the village edge and wrote a letter by candlelight. It was brief and careful, sealed before dawn.
Far away, in places Xiao Lin had never heard named, others would soon read it.
Xiao Lin spent the afternoon carrying water for his mother.
The buckets felt heavier than usual, sloshing dangerously. He stopped often to steady them.
"The water does not like being rushed," he muttered.
Villagers carrying baskets froze as one.
Zhang Hu's younger cousin stepped forward, broad faced and tense. "Enough," he said. "What do you really know."
The square fell silent.
Xiao Lin turned, startled. "I know how to spill water," he said apologetically. "I am doing it now."
A murmur rippled outward.
"Do not mock us," the cousin snapped.
"I am not," Xiao Lin said quickly. "I am truly bad at this."
He adjusted the buckets. Water spilled anyway, darkening the earth.
He stared at it.
"It always finds a lower place," he said. "No matter how carefully you carry it."
The cousin's face drained of color.
Someone whispered, "Humility."
Another murmured, "Acceptance."
Shen Yue pressed her lips together to hide a smile.
The cousin stepped back and bowed stiffly. "I understand."
Xiao Lin did not understand at all.
He finished his task and returned to the banyan tree, exhausted. Attention pressed against him like heat.
Shen Yue joined him and handed him a cloth.
"You survived another trial," she said.
"I did not know I was in one," he replied.
She studied him. "Does it bother you. That people listen so closely now."
He considered it.
"It feels," he said slowly, "like walking with an echo that answers before I speak."
She nodded. "That sounds inconvenient."
"Yes," he said. "I liked it better when silence was quiet."
Late in the afternoon, the traveler appeared at the village entrance.
He looked back once, gaze lingering on the banyan tree and on Xiao Lin beneath it.
"Some will notice," he said, his voice carrying faintly. "Not all will bow politely."
Then he turned and walked away.
A chill passed through the village.
"I hope he travels safely," Xiao Lin said.
As evening settled, the wind stirred. Leaves rustled softly.
Xiao Lin stood to leave.
One leaf detached from the banyan tree.
It did not fall.
It drifted upward instead, slow and uncertain, as though reconsidering.
Gasps filled the air.
Xiao Lin watched, puzzled. "It must be confused."
The leaf hovered, then settled back among the branches as if nothing had happened.
Silence stretched.
Xiao Lin lifted his basket. "Leaves forget where they are sometimes," he said. "I do too."
No one spoke as he walked away.
Above Qingxi, the sky remained unchanged.
But beyond the hills, words were already moving faster than mist, carried by feet and voices and ink.
And Xiao Lin, unaware, went home for dinner, wondering why the ground felt warmer beneath his steps.